Jealousy

I was going to start this post with the sentence "An old friend of mine", but then my brain went on a tangent. I'm hesitant to call Dick a friend. The fault lies with me, not him. I've never done anything to encourage a friendship, but he was a friend of a friend and tolerated me, so if asked, the only label I can provide is friend.

Dick has become a writer. The last time I really talked to him, I had wandered into a tobacco shop he had bought in Memphis. I remember thinking at the time, "You done good Dick, you done good." He had his own business selling a product that practically sells it's self. The shop was in an up and coming area of downtown and had that feel of a place where people go to shoot the breeze after they've bought their weekly supply of cigars. Not like the discount tobacco joints you see on every corner now with a tired looking clerk sitting behind bullet proof glass pushing bongs and kid friendly flavored smokes along with the cigarettes sold at the "cheapest prices allowed by law." It was more of a place that withered old men would sit and smoke and talk about the folly of planting cotton to often on the same plot.

That was easily over fifteen years ago. I haven't spoken with him since, but Facebook being what it is, I've been able to keep up with him a bit over the last couple of years. Dick reached out to me when my Mom passed and for that I'm thankful.

So, why the title "Jealousy?" As I said before, Dick has become a writer. As best as I can piece together, at some point he dabbled in blogging, got picked up to write a bi-weekly column for the major newspaper in our hometown, got out of the cancer business and recently wrote a short story that was not only published in a magazine, but won a contest for fiction. Dick seems to have found his calling in life and is enjoying what he does. That leaves me jealous on two fronts.

My profession is ok. I'm fond of saying that few people are able to make a living at doing what they love. Most people work because there is a paycheck at the end of the week. If pressed, few would tell you that they would continue to do what they do if they didn't get paid for it. I'm jealous, 'cause Dick is working at a job that I bet he would continue to do even if the lottery fairy dropped an obscene amount of cash in his lap.

I'm jealous in a more profound way of Dick's ability. My Mom was very artistic visually. She could draw, paint, and decorate. You could hand her the hairball coughed up by an alley cat and she was able to make it look better. My brother is artistic acoustically. He has an affinity for music, mostly the guitar. Not that he is Eddie Van Halen or anything, but music comes very easily for him.

As for me, I can't draw a straight line. With some concentration, I can play "Hot Crossed Buns" on the recorder (what is a hot crossed bun?). I always wanted to be able to write.

I've tried. I get bored with the process very quickly. I think good writers are able to immerse themselves in their own writing. I can fall into a story when reading a book, but I can't seem to get involved with my own writing. So after a couple of starts and stops, I gave up on it, realizing that I'm more suited to a critic's role than that of an artist. I am one of those poor souls that can label something as terrible, but can't produce anything better. And that leaves me jealous of Dick and his ability. Kudos to you Dick. You done good.

You can read Dick's story here.