My parents changed homes while I was abroad, and this Thanksgiving was the first in the cozy but foreign edifice that cradles our family heritage, such that it is. Despite my best efforts, far too much of my early childhood was packed up and moved, so I spent a few hours digging through and organizing piles of keepsakes and mementos.
I was familiar with the source material of course, so I wasn’t exactly surprised by any one object: but I do feel that collectively, they somehow imprinted on my consciousness, possibly altering the course of my agenda, so I wanted to savor the moment.
Without anything as banal as chronology, here are a few things I remember off the top of my head:
A floral photoshoot: my grandfather had a flower shop in San Francisco, and the cute pictures of me in a suit that I thought were just a personal photoshoot, was actually an advertising campaign for FTD… the first time perhaps my likeness has been used without compensation, not that it bothers me.
I also have a few early shots of me in the newspapers, sometimes with my mother, sometimes for myself. Like when I decorated a giant godzilla for Christmas on our front lawn, or when we were featured for an art project that involved antique wood prints.
A box of letters: hundreds of letters, from friends – mostly who were involved in a youth exchange program as teens. We bonded together in preparation and kept in touch after being sent to every corner of the world. Likewise, I have a collection of pins given by incoming students from dozens of countries. Hand-crafted, in pen on lined paper, sometimes with sketches or creative flourishes.
Letters from the mayor and a bunch of politicians congratulating me on getting my Eagle Scout, along with a photo of my best friend in a full native american costume and something about how white guys dressing up as Indians was uncomfortably farcical. This was part of the Order of the Arrow, an intriguing secret boy scout society involving darkness and fire.
A $100 check for a writing contest I won, which was never cashed; I also had a trophy for an affiliate project where I drove the most sales. I like to imagine I don’t work towards the rewards, the work is enough; I also expect this has something to do with my broken executive function… that penalties or prizes can’t motivate or detour my sharp path as I cut through the universe.
Stapled packets of my writing, which my mother printed off from my emails and early (and dubious) blog projects. These early samples were mostly travel writing and musings as I explored Malta, Egypt, Argentina… probably a dozen other countries in my teens. When I was questing, studying theology and philosophy, furiously pursuing the secrets of the cosmos and the moral obligations of being human.
One of these was about being sent to Prague for the first time, to an Amnesty International conference, where I bought a long fur coat in a pawn shop.
A sketchbooks of charcoal drawings, mostly from friends and people I knew. They were flawed and rough, but usually close enough of a likeness that I can still tell exactly who they were. The garage was also filled with canvases from when I was a painter, rolled up and crumpled. Half finished or poorly executed works that I’d cut from the frames. I saved about a third and the rest will go to the dump – they have no value.
This may sound tragic… a younger artist friend tried to convince me awhile ago that I shouldn’t give up my art – but I’ve never given it up. I achieved more success with my art than many others have, and it was enough: I found myself unwilling to labor so intensively for so little reward, and it stopped bringing me joy. I found words an easier medium to manipulate and focused my efforts there.
Incidentally… I’d done a reproduction of a classical painting in oils, and it was a precise enough match that Google Lens correctly identified the original. Things I’d thought were flaws, were faithfully represented. I wasn’t amazing, but I had explored the craft deeply enough that I can’t be accused of lacking skill.
A memoir – written by my Kindergarten teacher I think – recording my answers to simple basic questions about myself; it was called “all about me” and I noticed the teacher had made at least one spelling error, and that I had listed friends as well as enemies.
A picture from my time at an outdoor school, where I spent a year as the head cook feeding hundreds of kids three times a day. The picture shows me hanging upside down from a log, with the headline “Derek is a Person of Positive Influence.”
Books and books and books. I’ve never really measured my books, but I have more than enough to fill several bookshelves and also a few drawers. I update my covers frequently so there are various copies of each, it’s all a confusing mess, the series are all unfinished.
I also got to visit a very cool bookstore in the Pacific Northwest (no not that one) and I was surprised how many names I knew… online and offline friends, authors I’ve connected with over the years. It resparked something in me.
I’ve always said, don’t focus on bookstores, focus on building a platform and selling online. And yet to see these books in bookstores, the dream of success in its physical form is alluring. And why not me? It’s clearly possible, for some. I don’t feel I’ve failed, I just don’t think I’ve finished yet. And unlike some writers who become jaded and cynical, I feel I have every opportunity for my books to take off. But not by accident; not because the right person stumbled upon them at an opportune moment. No, this is going to have to come from me. Having the visual reality displayed before me was a strong motivator of what life could look like, when I get all the pieces right.
What’s different NOW?
I’ve spent the last few years being quiet. It wasn’t from a loss of confidence. I wasn’t hiding my light. But perhaps enthusiasm is so fragile a candle, I couldn’t afford to share. Or maybe since I’ve failed my main goals going on 10 years, and have shared everything I know already, my lips are better served pressed together in concentration than rounded in pontification.
But that hasn’t worked. I haven’t been more busy, not exactly, and the boldness of my early career led to a few years respite where I could concentrate on the work. I may not know any more, exactly, but my knowledge has deepened. I may need less spurious words to hit truth with greater accuracy.
So I’ve decided to be loud.
Firstly, I’ve set a new Big Goal – the first audacious, scary goal I’ve set in a long time – of writing 12 books in a year. It’s not impossible, but it is difficult. There’s nothing wrong with my current pace of 3 or 4 books a year, except I have so many stories that need an ending, and the endings need to occur before I can move onto new projects. Right now, the unfinished narratives are draining away my creative potential.
Secondly, I’ll post more often. Not expecting viral fame and fortune, but simply participating and interacting in the community – both to stimulate the algorithms of the all-powerful internet gods but also to keep my mind agile.
What this all looks like, I’ll probably figure out and share later.
It is difficult to fix and update everything, all the time, which is mostly what I’ve been occupied doing. So I expect I will happily let some projects die. I’ve planted too many seeds, but almost everything has been experimental. I’ve been driven by what could be possible, rather than what I want.
When I started this blog, I had a step-by-step plan but didn’t have any intimate experience with the higher levels: what does success look like after it is achieved? I’ve been dancing with that final line, hesitant to cross it into unknown territory. But there was also nothing attractive about my past or present, other than comfort and familiarity.
So next year, maybe, things will be different. But I’m forging forward, and it might be dangerous, so don’t follow too closely. I’ll leave breadcrumbs.
Derek Murphy has a PhD in Literature, is a USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author, and has spent over a decade helping authors write, publish, and sell books through Creativindie. When he’s not critiquing manuscripts or building writing tools, he’s probably in a castle somewhere with cats.
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