Gift?

In the movie "Amadeus," the character of Antonio Salieri laments his own relative mediocrity as a composer when measured against the genius of Mozart. Maddening to Salieri is when the young prodigy, at first listen to a piece Salieri has labored over, deems it simple and somewhat repetitive and then whimsically embellishes it, with seemingly little effort, into something more intricate and sophisticated. The humiliated Salieri discovers that mere passion for an endeavor does not equal brilliance, and fueled by his seething, and envious rage, decides that he must destroy Wolfgang Amadeus.

I recently read a Richard Russo novel where the mother of one character discovers that while she is a talented artist, her daughter has: "The Gift." In contrast to Salieri, the mother encourages her daughter to pursue her art, that she can attain a level of mastery that always eluded her. The irony is that the daughter never does seriously pursue her gift, and it is her lost love, a boy who seemingly haphazardly stumbled across his own talent as a painter, who goes on to fame and notoriety with his art.

I've been thinking lately about my own passions. Specifically in the many endeavors in which I have certain levels of talent, yet I'm not "gifted," in any one pursuit. A "Jill-of-all-trades, master-of-none," seems to be my lot. I've dabbled in many things, both athletic and artistic and I usually find that I have at least average to often, above average talent in most things I pick up.  My sense of determination and competition seems to keep me in the "game" but I also seem to always have one or three Achilles Heel flaws or deficiencies that allow me to fall short of genius or glory. Yet I keep butting my head against the wall and suffering the subsequent pain of failure and defeat.  Combine my passion(s)  with the enduring curse of being an inveterate dreamer, and I am seemingly biologically set up for heartache. 

 A few of my passions: I can sing pretty good and carry a tune, but have limited range and can't hit all the notes. I can both strum and finger-pick my guitar and ukulele, but do neither smoothly or with exemplary melody. As a soccer player, I had an above average sense of the game and field awareness that helped my coaching but lacked the deft ball skills to allow me to excel as a player. As both a runner and triathlete, I always found myself ahead of the middle-of-the-packers, and often could keep the leaders in sight, but I could never hang with them.    

My greatest athletic passion however, the passion I've engaged in over a life-time, the athletic (though also soulful and spiritual) pursuit of surfing, has been taking alot of hits these days, engendering alot of heartache and suffering.  My body, at the age of 53, no longer seems capable of performing the way it once did.  Reflexes, flexibility, strength...all shot to hell. Now, I can reconcile with the natural and gradual loss of performance that comes with age, but my situation is exacerbated and accelerated by many injuries, surgeries, and bodily changes in the last few years, rendering the most basic act of standing up to be an exercise in extreme frustration and futility.  It's my knees, mostly.  ACL reconstruction and three torn meniscus repairs on my right knee, and both a repaired and unrepaired torn meniscus on my left knee have ravaged my range of motion; neither knee enjoys full flexion or extension anymore.  Scar tissue and arthritis in those knees as well as both shoulders and my neck (the neck never the same from a whip-lash injury suffered in a big-wave wipeout,) very tight hip-flexors and hamstrings, (one never fully recovered from a bad tear during a soccer match,)  spinal disc tears, and an auto-immune condition known as Ankylosing-Spondylitis...all serve to inhibit the basic surfing motion of smoothly drawing my feet under me when I "pop-up."  Too often, I can't accomplish this most basic act in one motion, and will either fall off in kookish (beginner) fashion, or will stumble and bumble awkwardly too late to my feet, only to have my timing blown (timing is crucial in surfing) and watch the wave reel off without me. 

Now, I've long ago come to terms with the reality that I'm not exceptionally gifted in my surfing, but what about passion?  I've still got dreams and goals.  Okay, so I'll never be on the cover of any magazines or sign any autographs because I rip the waves, but what about my dream of surfing J-Bay?  Australia? Ireland?  Hawaii?  Frikkin Hawaii?  I know I'll never paddle out at second-reef Pipeline, but even a three-footer there would give me a huge rush and thrill, just to say I did it!  Yet passion for something doesn't seem to matter.  As Salieri discovered, there are only a handful of Mozarts to be sprinkled around in this world.  Yet unlike Salieri, what do you do when your passion for something overrides your envy and disappointment that you are not in the same league of the Mozarts yet instead of quitting, you still think there is a place for your music, your own compositions.  What do you do when life, in all her cruelty, takes even that, from you?

My writing, my artistic passion, something as essential to me as breathing, has really been breaking my heart lately.  Take for example yesterday.  I spent a couple of hours trying to research the "right agent" (as all the wisdom of agent listings advise) for my children's book.  I composed and polished the best query letters I could, put together with writing samples of the story in question to create a professional proposal (and I am a professional, of sorts anyway; I've been published and paid for some of my more meager work.)  I sent two queries out yesterday via email, full of hope (why do I still hope after 30 years of frustration! Cuz I still dream, is the answer,) and both of those proposals were...wait for it, drum-roll please...rejected.  One rejection came back in less than an hour.  The other received the auto-reply message that the agent was "out-of-the-office."  A few hours later, when he was presumably back-in-the-office, I received a curt: thanks-but-no-thanks form rejection. 

Douche bags.  I hate them all.   

Okay, that said...does all this rejection I've suffered in my writing life mean I have no "gift?"  Or worse, does it mean I just flat-out, suck?  While I can't answer for the former (though I realize the odds are against me becoming the next Steinbeck, Heller, Hemingway, Pynchon, Lee, Oates, Welty et. al,) I know the latter is not true.  I don't...suck.  In fact, (though there is always the possibility that I'm delusional,) I am a damn good (if not genius; always fall short of genius) writer.  What evidence do I have to support this?  Pretty much no scientific data that I can point to...more like the faith that a devout believer holds in their heart.  I've created good work that I'm proud of, really proud of.  Yet I've yet to have my faith find validation in publication of my book length writing.  I've had discussions with other people who are not artists about my frustrations and rejections; they always fall into one of two camps: "Why don't you self-publish?"  To this they always offer anecdotal evidence of some writer who has done this and been very successful; one such writer recently made over 2 million in sales of her work.  Curious, I read some excerpts on-line; while not utterly horrid, it wasn't art.  Sure, it was saleable, and she was adept enough in her craft to not put most readers to sleep...but it wasn't art.  I want to write art...art that sells of course.  The other camp are those who say: "If you know what you've written is good, what does it matter if it gets published?"  Mon dieu.  Not to sound elitist or condescending, but if you don't have a real interest or passion for art, don't talk to artists about what you might perceive as the "vain" need for validation with their art...you just don't get it...

The sad reality is, I might never receive that validation.  I know of great writers who never received great recognition for their work.  My old college professor is a case in point.  I've read two of his novels and he is on par with Steinbeck in both scope and execution; his prose is absolutely exquisite.  He in fact, once mentored John Irving, who of course is kinda famous...and yet, outside a very small circle of those who know of his brilliance, he remains largely unknown.  A recent search on Amazon turned up a few of his works that I've yet to read (and eagerly will!) but even the reviewers lament that his genius is unknown. 

Then of course, there are the sad cases of those whose talents, are only realized too late.  John Kenndey Toole earned a Pulitzer for his raucous masterpiece: A Confederacy of Dunces.  Tragically, the honor was bestowed post-humously, after he'd already committed suicide.  Suicide born of frustration that his work, his genius, his passion, his gift, went un-validated in his lifetime.  I understand that passion, that heartache for something that you pour your whole heart and soul into, that meets not merely with rejection and/or scorn, but worse...indiffrerence.  If not for a loving mother who slapped the manuscript on an editor's desk and demanded that he read it, the world might have missed out on the genius of Toole. 

So, where does all this leave me.  I'm a stubborn nut.  Perseverance is my middle name.  But even I am coming to accept that I have a finite time to make my mark, and for that mark to allow me the freedom to pursue some of my dreams...  I've given myself a deadline (as I've often employed as a motivator,) to get myself an agent to represent my work, before this year is fini.  If I'm still unsuccesful, I will...(throat lump, heart clench, misty eyes) self-publish and be done with the two works I'm currently peddling.  And...nobody will read them...most likely.  My heart and soul will swirl down the drain of failure and defeat; I will have, in my heart and soul, fallen short, yet again.  Another Salieri; no genius, only a modicum of talent.  Self-publishing is the kiss-of-death in the world of legitimate publishing; sure it's easy and everyone can do it, and that's precisely it...everyone (read: anyone) can do it.  So my nugget of art will be lost out there as a grain of sand in the desert of mediocrity. 

And what will I do after?  I will of course, keep writing (read the part about it being as necessary as breathing;) I've got 6 other works-in-progress and I won't, I can't stop...trying.  But I've come to a point where I realize I can't keep butting my head; it's bloody and raw.  I have to pursue other things where if I'm not gifted, or even very talented, will at least allow me to crawl out of my little fox-hole of singular and solitary resistance.  There is nothing, NOTHING, romantic about the life of a starving artist.  I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I've reached a point where comfort and security, matter.  It will hurt...alot!  Because failure, defeat, always hurt.  But...not so much that I'm gonna go out and find me some Mozarts to poison...