About twenty years ago, having written a number of educational and technical books for hire, I decided that I would write a book of my own — my own thoughts, in my own voice. It would be a book of critical and philosophical essays, describing pivotal points in my life and what they led me to believe is true about the world. I had majored in philosophy in college, and I had an unusual variety of life experiences to draw from, so I felt that I was reasonably prepared to translate the lessons I’d learned into a series of entertaining but edifying personal stories.
Since you haven’t seen my name on the New York Times best-seller list, it should be obvious that the book never got written. Believe me, I tried. My problem wasn’t lack of discipline — I had been self-employed for most of my adult life, and I was in the habit of devoting my days, and most of my nights, to work. Rather, the problem was my inability to say anything that stood up to scrutiny. I’d spend a day crafting a few pages of compelling prose; then I’d read it the next day, cry “This is bullshit,” and delete nearly all of it. After a couple of months of this, I found myself with a folder full of fragments that seemed worthy of non-deletion, but nothing that cohered into a meaningful essay. I reluctantly concluded that I hadn’t acquired enough wisdom to write a book.
Well, it’s twenty years later, and a couple of things have changed. First, I’m in my mid-60s, and I’ve had a chance — I hope — to accumulate a bit more wisdom. Second, there’s now a socially acceptable place to publish fragments that don’t necessarily cohere into anything meaningful. It’s called a blog.
I was understandably hesitant to start a blog. Many talented people maintain them, and much of what they have to say is at least occasionally interesting and enlightening. Given the sheer volume of blogs out there — and even accepting that much of their content is worthwhile — my natural reaction is to retreat, and not to read any of them. Putting myself in the shoes of my potential audience, I can assume that no one is likely to read mine, either, no matter how much effort and care I put into it. In that case, why bother?
The answer begins with the long-ago death of my father. (Yes, I’m about to describe a pivotal life experience and tell you what it let me to believe about the world. Book or no book, that’s still my M.O.!) Aaron Schaeffer, a lifetime smoker, died of metastatic lung cancer at age 61. He had been born in the Bronx to impoverished immigrants who had never quite adapted to life beyond the shtetl. (His first language was Yiddish; he learned English only when he started attending school.) He had leanings toward being an artist, but chose to become a mechanical engineer because he knew that was the only way he’d be able to support a family. When he married my mother, it was generally accepted that she was “marrying down,” and he was never quite able to live up to her expectations. His son — that is, I — proved to be something of a disappointment, and our relationship was never close. But when I went to Florida after his death to help my mom sort through his things, I discovered that he had boxes and boxes of memorabilia stacked in the garage — records of engineering patents he’d acquired, commendations and awards he’d won after his midlife career change to educational administration, minutes of meetings he’d chaired during his tenure as president of our local synagogue, articles he’d written, news clippings he’d appeared in.
I looked through it all, and then threw it all away. As much as they must have meant to him, none of these mementos had any value to my mother, my sister, or me. As I heaved the precious contents of his boxes into the dumpster, I was left with a deep sense of the futility and meaninglessness of life.
But then a funny thing happened: I got old. I’ve passed the age that my father was when he died, and I’ve outlived my mother and sister as well. And as it turns out, I have boxes and boxes of memorabilia that mark the milestones, events, and achievements of my life. As irrational as I know it to be — and even knowing that after I die, all of it will be tossed into the dumpster just as my father’s things were — I can’t part with them while I’m alive. To keep going, I need this tangible evidence that my life has meaning, even if (as I strongly suspect) it doesn’t. I accept that need — call it self-delusion, if you will — as part of being human. And here’s what I’ve lately come to realize: I have mental boxes that are every bit as prized as the physical boxes. I have memories, thoughts, and ideas that feel tremendously valuable to me. Whether they actually are valuable is beside the point. I feel the need to make them tangible — if not in a book, then in a blog. If you read it, and if you get anything useful, enjoyable, or thought-provoking from it, then I’ll be extremely happy. But ultimately, I’m not doing this for you; I’m doing it for me.
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