3 Ways To Tell You're Successful

What is success, really? Is it being good at your job? Is it making a living doing what you love? Is it having fame, fortune, and being adored by your millions of adoring fans? I don't think there's an actual, solid answer to that question.

Success is by default a very abstract concept, and therefore it can be subjective. As in, different people might define success in vastly different ways. But for me, I've compiled a Top 3 list. If any of these things happen in real life I'll know I've finally made it. (And can give my children ridiculous names without being ridiculed for it)

I'm not saying it's a good decision. I'm saying it's your decision.

People you don't know have a tattoo you inspired. One of the most permanent forms of flattery. It might be your face, or a little symbol, or some song lyrics or whatever. If someone you have never ever met is willing to put up with actual pain and pay actual money to get something permanently inked onto their skin, you'll know you managed to do something pretty darn good.

Look at this child. Just begging to have his mind poisoned.

People are saying you're influencing their children. One day, ultra-conservative parents might even say that I am planting horrible ideas into the minds of young, impressionable children and should have my work banned from schools and public libraries. If this actually happens, it means I would have already been quite established as an author and that means I can begin recruiting my child army I will have had already gained enough influence for parents to fear I'm tainting their sweet children. Yes, cower and worry. Your fear nourishes me.

But if this actually happens it would probably be pretty irritating cause when people are saying you're evil, then you're naturally tempted to prove them right and release the flying monkeys on them.

A researcher looked at this fly and thought that it was bootylicious. Uh...

When you have an animal named after you. Pictured above is Queen Bey next to a horse fly named after her. Scaptia beyonceae. Why? Cause of that golden butt. I don't know how Beyoncé actually feels about this, but at least she'd never have to wonder about her fame ever again. At the same time, entomology students will have to put up with their professors' Bootylicious jokes every time this fly comes up.

So if one day I wake up and the news is reporting how I've had a wasp named after me or One Million Moms is mad at me cause my books are 'a bad influence', I'll know I've made it into the big leagues. And when that happens, I might finally be justified to buy an Iron Throne just to sit on when guests are around. It might be a few years before that happens, but till then, a guy can dream.

Stars

Hey everyone, Jake here. I've decided that I'm gonna' put up little short stories here whenever I feel the itch to write them. They might be semi-regular, or who knows, maybe even a weekly thing. Only time will tell, eh? Ahahaha, yep. Please. Enjoy. Or I will be displeased.

*******

It's amazing how bright the sky is tonight. I never knew you could see this many stars in the suburbs. Too bright, usually. But I can see them perfectly right now, from my little spot in the middle of the road. Amazing how okay I am with this. If I lie still and not move, it's almost comfy.

Ow. Yeah, if I try not to move it's an alright place to be. Almost comfy.

Why am I even lying on the road anyway? Isn't that dangerous? What's wrong with me? Oh wait. Yeah. The kid. The stupid little kid. I can hear him crying. He's not hurt, is he?

"Shit, are you okay?"

Who's that? Huh. Middle-aged guy. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Looks like a dad. You know the type. Suburban type, nine-to-five job, always holding a beer while he stands near the grill at the party.

"Just stay with me, kid," he says, his voice kind of urgent. "What's your name?"

I cough. Damn, it hurt to cough. That sucks.

"Sam," I manage. It's barely audible to my own ears. I hope this guy caught it. I don't really want to keep talking. Hurts too much to talk. Takes too much energy.

"Sam?" says the man, sounding almost relieved. "Sam, I've called 911, they should be here any minute now. Just stay with me."

He holds my hand in his, in that gentle way that feels like he's afraid to break something. His hands are warm. Kind of clammy though. In fact, he looks kind of sweaty all over. Pale too. Is he sick?

"Sam, focus on my voice," he says. This guy really has that sense of urgency in his tone. Wonder if he's rushing to be someplace. "Talk to me. How old are you?"

Weird question.

"Ni... Nineteen," I whisper. It's taking a bit too much effort to talk now. Another cough. This one tastes a bit rusty. Ew. I really feel like puking.

"Nineteen," he laughs. Sounded really nervous. I wonder why. Is nineteen a funny number? Maybe it reminds him of a joke. Like the other one. How did it go again? 7-8-9, or something.

"Stars," I sigh. Every word I say is so dry in my mouth but he has got to see these stars.

"Yeah, Sam," he nods, one hand gently touching my face.

Whoa, dude. Boundaries. At least buy me a drink first. Heh. Wait a second. Did he say something about 911? What's up with that? I can hear an ambulance somewhere. Did something happen? That kid's still crying. Why is he crying? I have so many questions but I just can't be bothered to ask them right now.

It's starting to get really cold out here. Autumn and I'm out without a coat. Genius of the Year, right?

"Sam?" he says. "Sam, stay awake."

No. I think I'll go to bed. I'm starting to get used to the cold. It's not bothering me as much. I can't be bothered to get up anyway.

"Sam," he says again, more urgently this time. He slaps my face a bit. "Sam, wake up."

I look to the side, trying to avoid being slapped some more. Hey. Where did that car come from? The front lights look cracked. Is this his car? He should really take care of it a bit more. Maybe it got vandalized.

"I-Is-Is he okay?" the kid sobs. Hey, look who stopped crying. Well, no wonder he was crying. He's skinned his knees. Poor guy. Probably while running home or something.

"Yeah," the man says, not taking his eyes off me. "Yeah, he's going to be fine."

The ambulance is getting louder now. But it's starting to sound muffled. Like I'm underwater or something. I cough again, this time in the guy's face.

"Sor... ree..." Seriously. I wasn't trying to cough in your face, man. Now I've got red stuff all over your nice white shirt. Little cherries in fresh cream. Ah, I'd kill for some of that right now. It'd make everything perfect.

Things are getting really comfy now. I can't hear the ambulance anymore, which is nice. Peaceful. I think the guy is crying but I can't really hear him. He looks blurry. I'm getting really sleepy. Warm even. I don't want to get up. And the stars. Look at those stars. I never knew you could see this many stars in the sub...

The Manuscript is Done

The manuscript I've been working on is done. A project I've been spending months and months losing sleep over is finally finished. And now comes the next bit: Finding an agent to work with, and crossing my fingers hoping that my book manages to snag a contract with one of the big publishing houses.

I have to say, the moment I finished that last sentence and hit the 'Save' button, it felt really good. Like a huge weight had been lifted off, all because the manuscript was done. It felt amazing. It feels good to look at this thing and think, "Hey, I made this. This is essentially what makes a book and I managed to do it." It's delightful, that's what it is.

So now I'm gonna' spend some time looking up some agents to contact and see if any of them want to take this ride with me. Wish me luck, guys.

It's Scary Being a Writer

Okay. Maybe 'being a writer' isn't exactly a particularly scary thing. There's no real risk to life and limb, so it's one of the least life-threatening jobs out there.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that being a new writer is a scary thing. Particularly at that point when the future of your lovingly-crafted manuscript isn't clear. You've got so much hope for it, but you can't see what's lying ahead.

Yes, my novel's in the final stages of being edited/rewritten, which feels like a great personal achievement to myself. Even if nobody else thinks the same thing. And I've got to say, the past few months when all my attention was focused on writing, I was feeling pretty comfortable with my little setup. But when the manuscript started nearing completion, things started getting scary. Rationally, I know that there isn't anything to really be afraid of. But there's just so many things to worry about when a small part of you is actively looking at things that might go wrong. That worries me.

I like to think of myself as an optimist. I try my best to be hopeful about the things I get myself into. But when I think about looking for an agent and finally trying to get published, it scares me. The horrible voice in my head asks all sorts of awful questions that really get me freaking out. 

Is the novel too short? Is the writing the best I can make it be? Will the agents and publishers like this?

I would have no problems answering these questions if it were anyone else worrying over them. I know that a novel's length is technically a subjective thing. There's no fixed rule. I know that I will never be satisfied with the writing, and I'll always find a way to make it better. Even if the change is tiny, I'd find fault with it somehow. And I also know that different agents and publishers will like different things. Because at the end of the day, they're people and that's how people are!

But as a writer who's editing the story he's painstakingly put together for months (technically years), it's still worrying. I'm slowly getting a grip though. Even now, writing this is helping me get this load off my chest, and I can hear that hopeful voice in my head again. It knows that there's an agent out there who will love to represent me. It knows there's a publisher out there who would love to print my book. And it knows there would be readers out there who would love my book.

So for now, I'll just have to finish up this manuscript. I'm happy with the story I'm trying to tell. I'm happy with the work that I've managed to do, and continue to do. I've just got to keep at it, and pray for something good to happen.

P.S. - I swear I'm not mentally ill. The voices in my head aren't telling me to rob a bank or kill a man or anything.

P.P.S. - If you're feeling the same thing that I am (gut-wrenching fear over the future of your work) I'd love to hear you out in the comments below.

Cheers, everyone. Thanks for reading.