Solutions of grandeur

The fact that no one asked me to write a self-help book is precisely why I’m doing it. There are so many selves in need of so much help. If I don’t do it, no one will. Who asked Dale Carnegie to change his last name when Rockefeller would’ve suited him just fine? For me, a name change won’t be necessary. I set out to address serious issues that, much like fragile Christmas presents, deserve a delicate unwrapping. Unwrap recklessly and you’ll be holding shards of a once great porcelain vase in your hands, giftless and humiliated. Another poor, inconsiderate sap, undoing the work of a great many underpaid elves.

“You don’t have to be who you are if you’re not okay not being who you aren’t.” It sounds simple, which is partially why I chose to go with such a clear and succinct title for my book. The subtitle, “It’s easier done than said if you have nothing to say,” does the heaviest of lifting. Most do. Some of the greatest works of literature had subtitles that attracted fence-sitting potential readers. Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby: Yes, of course he’s great. Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five: If you thought the first four slaughterhouses were intense, you’re in for a real treat. And who can forget Chopin’s The Awakening: It’s time to wake up.

You can’t look at this book cover and not immediately understand that it will help anyone who comes in contact with it. The image on the jacket cues readers into what this book is about. It’s me pushing a giant rubber band ball up a steep hill. An homage to my 2nd favorite Greekman, Sisyphus. Don’t you just admire the guy’s persistence? Well-paid and poorly-coiffed scholars have been misreading this fable for centuries. So what if he never gets to the top? He never gives up – that’s what matters. In fact, the boy is still at it, all these years later. Sorry, but the joke’s on Zeus not Sis. Think of the shape he’s in considering everything he’s been through. And he didn’t even have to bother with a gym membership. That’s the sort of resiliency you can only hope to impart on a young, wayward intern unwilling to use a broken fax machine. 

Like most people who make their living in a creative field, I have more ideas than I know what to do with. I brush my teeth. Big idea. I roast some garlic. Huge idea. I read some Bill Blake. Enormous idea. But not every idea is destined for primetime. I simply can’t help them all. No, I do more than that. The ones I can’t help, I actually hurt. 

I sacrifice every single one of my firstborn ideas, those that will unquestionably change the world, to Murray, the God of mediocrity.