A Word on Wednesday: Optimism

Optimism is something to celebrate.

An optimist will remember the promise of spring on a blustery, winter day, believe in what's possible rather than dwell on the impossible, and live with more hope than worry. This glass-half-full mindset is shorthand for optimism.     

The noun, optimism, is primarily defined as a disposition or tendency to look on the more favorable side of events or conditions and to expect the most favorable outcome. 

The word expect is key in looking at the definition. Optimists do not hope for or wish for, they expect. A true optimist will live without fear or doubt slowing them down. 

Further definitions of optimism are closer to its Latin and French Eighteenth Century roots. Optimism is a doctrine/teaching of a belief system:  

• that good ultimately predominates over evil in the world;

• that goodness pervades reality; or

• that the existing world is the best of all possible worlds.

In this way, optimism is faith. It is doctrine without contradiction, without hocus pocus, and without moral codes of conduct. Optimism also is a word without reference to a deity. It is simple, derived from Latin optimus best, superlative of bonus good. 

Optimism declares the world is good, a world where there is an ultimate triumph of good over evil. 

Optimists are not just looking to the bright side. Optimists are not just peering through rose-colored glasses. Optimists are more; they are believers. 

How I write

The beautiful and blank fancy journals. 

The pristine journals are beautiful, inspiring, arty, and full of possibility. I have received many of these notebooks to inspire me and prompt me to write, a validation my vocation as a writer is a worthy pursuit.

Pictured are gifts from friends. The one in the background was a surprise gift brought to my front door at a time when I had "quit" writing. It was a thoughtful gift to inspire me to keep penning and remind me of the value of poetry and prose. I received the one in the foreground at my book launch party, it a ribbon of accomplishment, a celebration of those 75,000 words bound in my first published book. 

The ugly work-in-progress truth. 

My current project is a big mess! Note cards, legal pads (pink, yellow, and white), composition notebooks, binders, folders, sketch pads, markers, and that's just on the desk. On the computer are jpegs of character composites and settings, One Note files, research PDFs, Excel spreadsheets, several word docs containing some of the forty-eight original poems that will accompany the novel, and The One Main Word Document, sadly shy on word and page count.

The blank, fresh sheets intimidate me rather than inspire me. I need color and mess. I need legal sheets that easily tear and can be crumpled before being tossed in the general direction of the waste paper basket. I take comfort in the clutter.  

I apologize to Laurie and Sharon for keeping those pages blank. I do love them, and keep them as pure treasures. Someday, I may feel focused enough to be able to just write directly on the beautifully bound pages, confident in the worth of my words straight from thought to page. Until then, I can rest assured no one will publish my work posthumously, as it would be impossible to interrupt.

In case you are wondering, my novel in progress has a working title: "Poetic License." Of course, there is a legal pad sheet with a list of at least twenty alternatives — was that a pink or yellow sheet and where did I file it?

The Companions We Keep

Grandma Suzanne always said, “I take my happy with me wherever I go.”

I always thought happy was grandpa’s name.

When grandpa retired, I was just learning to read. The banner said Congratulations Mark! Best Wishes.

“Who is Mark?” I asked my mom.

“That’s Grandpa,” she said.

“I thought his name was Happy, because grandma always says she is taking her happy with her.”

My mom’s sister overheard this and she laughed as my mom did the best she could to keep her face straight.

“Oh, Elliot, honey. That’s just an old saying Grandma likes,” she said.

“That’s right,” know-it-all Aunt Bee said. “The entire saying is ‘happiness is not a destination. It is a companion we can choose to accompany us on our journey.’”

I exhaled through a clenched jaw. My welling, deep black eyes squinted to slits. I turned and stomped away. I heard oh my and snickers following me. I hid beneath a row of coats in the hallway leading to the restrooms. I situated myself in the corner, well concealed among the bunched coats.

That is what I took with me — memories of teasing, laughter, and gut-twisting embarrassment. I carried my thoughts of my own stupidity.

I watched ankles and legs. From my vantage point I could only make out cropped people as they walked in the hallway.  

 

Mom came out and called a hushed, “Elliot.” A half-heartedly attempt to reach me, I thought. Dad stepped behind her and convinced her that the concern she held was unfounded.

“He will be fine. He’s just a little embarrassed,” I overheard Dad say. “He’s just a boy who needs time alone to get himself together.”

I should muscle through and be a tough guy like my father, I thought. My dad never did anything embarrassing. He played hockey with the guys from the health network where he practiced orthopedic medicine.  

“Are you sure he’s okay?” mom asked.

“I’m sure,” Dad said.

“You are probably right,” she conceded.

I watched ankles, shins and shoes parade back and forth. I’m not sure how long I sat there. As time passed, voices got louder, steps got quicker. The party was building momentum. Laughter was populating. Inhibitions were vanishing. Happy was a promiscuous companion of all the party guests.

Well nearly all. I only had shame to carry with me. Grandma Suzanne came to me then. At an age when her peers walked with orthopedic shoes, she wore a beige, wedge sandal. Her slender legs hadn’t lost their tone, thanks to her regular practice of yoga and Zumba.

She often said, “inactivity was akin to playing dead, and she had far too much living yet to do.”

Grandma Suzanne described herself as young, which she justified because she could still sit on the floor.

“Children sit on the floor,” she always said.

It was unsaid that old people sit in Barcalounger or arm chairs with ottomans to put their heavy feet up. She gave her chair up at gatherings to people half her age.  

Grandma knew where to find me, and magically she knew just the right time to seek me out. She crawled right under those coats across from me. She didn’t say anything. She just sat there in her pantsuit and waited for me to acknowledge her. I couldn’t wait long. I looked up at Grandma and didn’t feel a need to explain what I was doing or why I was sitting there. She didn’t need me to express how angry I felt when Aunt Bee laughed or how lonely I felt after leaving the party.

I sensed her calm. I felt peace just being near here.

She stretched her arms and said, “Won’t you please join me? Happy is inside watching the band. She’s waiting for you.”

I returned her smile. I nodded. I placed my hands in hers with age spots that wouldn’t lie. I loved that woman.

We danced and laughed. I noticed Mom, well into her swaying stupor, color her face with relief when she saw me with Grandma.   

I was with Happy then. Grouchy was too heavy a companion, I decided.

 

Meet the Author - Intro

There are two secrets to good writing.

The first is write often and other is read widely.

In the spirit of community, I am starting a Meet the Author Series. I've asked some recently published authors to write about some aspect of life or publishing that is interesting to me. Hopefully, you will enjoy it as well. And there are giveaways!

Please watch for these authors in the upcoming weeks.

August 2^nd

Donald Dempsey, author of the memoir Betty’s Child, is writing about “Self-Publishing vs. Indie Press.”

August 20^th  

Elaine Drennon Little, author of Southern Place, is writing about “Book Clubs.”

September 2^nd

Susan Tive, co editor of the anthology Beyond Belief; The Secret Lives of Women in Extreme Religions, is writing about “Feminism and Religion.”