Writers, athletes, entrepreneurs share a certain characteristic, whether innate or acquired, and that is they are not risk-averse.
If you wish to write, you have to take risks -- put yourself out there. An alternative, I suppose, is to write extremely carefully, choosing each word of each story so as to minimize shocking, offending, or scaring your reader.
It's not news to my readers that I don't practice safe-sex; oops, I meant to say safe-writing.
Watching my 13-year-old play soccer yesterday, I felt a sense of wonder, the same way I used to feel watching his big brother. They both are true athletes not only in their coordination, speed, strength, and endurance, but the way they throw themselves into the game.
Aidan is growing so fast that he almost looks blurry these days; or maybe it's time to revisit my eye doctor, where that nice young Chinese woman chose the style for my sunglasses, a style that accretes compliments to this day. (Therefore, I assume, it is not yet out of style.)
Where was I? Yes, growth. Aidan is at least 5'4" now, and weighs 105 lbs. His feet are essentially the same size as mine, yet he'll continue to grow and fill out for another decade. The last element to arrive is that line of muscles rippling across a young man's back.
As an athlete, he throws himself into the game with a passion that is infectious. Most of his teammates do the same; there are no laggards by this stage. Their coaches have drilled a competitive spirit into them that is a positive version of what military trainers apparently sometimes do.
Dylan is reading Jarhead. Junko watched the movie the other night. I tried but couldn't stand it; the drill sergeant screaming obscenities at young Marines, supposedly toughening them up through verbal (and physical) abuse.
Young Julia has been having trouble getting used to the knocks and bruises that are a routine part of playing soccer. Yesterday, she took a direct hit by the soccer ball in her stomach and left the game crying.
That's part of it, too. Earlier, I'd been hard on her when she limped off the field after the ball glanced off her knee. She didn't get any fatherly sympathy for that, and Dylan set aside Jarhead for a moment to lecture me when he overheard me telling her, "You're not hurt!"
"Dad, you can't tell another person whether they're hurt or not. It's not something you feel -- only they know how they feel."
Somewhat chagrined, I stopped berating JuJu.
Probably due to Dylan's influence, when she came off later crying, I gave her lots of love and sympathy. This time I felt her pain.
So, you see, the point is that I'm not always a good parent, far from it. The only choice is to take on responsibility, acknowledge failure, try to learn and try not to repeat these errors.
That's another one of those risky parts of life -- being a parent. We live in an age, psychologically, where many believe you can "ruin" a child by committing all kings of parenting errors. I'm not going to take a position on that one, but to stay on the safe side (see, even a risk-taker knows when he's over-matched), I tell the kids every day that I love them.
There's a lot of risk involved in love, even within your own family, as well as story-telling about your loved ones. That's risk I bet most -- though not all -- of us are willing to take.
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