The Regret Fairy

When one asks about regret, the politically correct and morally strong answer seems to be: "Oh, I have no regrets in life." or "Everything happens for a reason." or "Mistakes are made so that we may learn from them..."

Ummm... excuse me for being crass but, Bull shit! I officially call bull shit on that one.

Don't ask me why, but I've been thinking about regret lately and come to a rather different conclusion. Regret is real and tangible and equally as crucial as the aforementioned higher ground. It seems to me that a life worth lived is a life of stumbling blocks, hiccups, and stupidity. Thus in steps the Regret Fairy (think Tooth Fairy with a big ugly syringe or principal yielding paddle), filling our hearts with such darkness and pain that we instinctively never, EVER, want to make that same mistake again. Is learning from one's mistakes important? Absolutely. I just think that for some of us--namely, the stubborn, pig-headed, or just plain naive-- we need a big whack across the head before our mistakes really start to sink in. And just in case we conveniently forget later down the road, Regret is there to remind us, because--let's face it--like a paddle yielding elephant with wings, the Regret Fairy never forgets. And thank God for that.

Thoughts from a struggling writer

WOW. I Haven't written anything on here in nearly four months. I'd like to say that I have just been soooo busy with my wonderfully enigmatic and fun-filled life that I simply haven't found the time, but that would not be entirely accurate. Is my life here in Charlotte wonderful and enigmatic and fun-filled? For the most part, I would say yes, surprisingly so! Am I too busy to jot down some thoughts from time to time, to delve into my little pocket of creativity and spit out a few words of inspiration or friendly banter? No.

To be honest, I haven't written much of anything lately, and it's not for lack of time.

The source of this drought is somewhat unclear, but I think it stems from the fact that I feel a bit disillusioned with my own writing. Do I enjoy writing? Yes, of course. I'm just not sure I'm that great at it, at least no better than the thousands upon thousands of other word sprites out there. Beyond my insecurities, I'm just not so sure I know around which format my words should be molded. I'm afraid I have lost my voice.

I mean, let's be serious. My life really isn't THAT interesting and I can't help but feel a bit self-obsessed writing about it. I tried the more "creative writing" route, but that just takes a great deal more time and effort, something not necessarily appealing for someone with a lack of motivation (i.e. ME). Thus, the question emerges: How do I make my writing interesting to people OTHER THAN my mother? Or is this a question I should even be asking myself? Writing is, after all, a form of self-expression and thus anti-thetical to the idea of writing for a particular audience. On the other hand, I can't help but appreciate the viewpoint of an old friend of mine, himself a phenomenal writer, performer, and artist. His argument is thus: Art is a gift. It is not about the artist, but central to the recipient. A great actor does not act for himself but to entertain, to give the gift of theater. This same principle applies to the craft of writing. A writer does not write to show off his or her talents, or accumulate accolades and pats on the back. She writes to share a part of herself, whether it is to entertain, inform, or inspire. In the end, there is no artist, just the product itself, a small piece of a person, a time, an idea. And in that regard, art--specifically the written word-- is the ultimate act of selflessness.

Then why is it I feel like the most narcissistic person on this planet just writing this post...