Declining radius of responsibility

There is this super schlocky book out now, called The Secret. Something about how we can create our own realities.

Yeah, yeah.

The problem I have with these books (which come out every few years under a new title) is that they are nothing that our mothers and grandmothers didn't tell us.

The Secret can be distilled into the six words my mother used to tell us four kids: "Fake it until you make it."

In other words, if you wanted to be happy, then smile. You know what? People will be smiling back at you. They will be friendlier to you. And you will fall into conversation easier. And guess what? You'll be happier.

If you want to be president of the United States, start acting like you want that. You can get something without acting like you want it.

Big secret? I don't think so. Good advice that needs to be repeated to every generation? Absolutely. Except, in my grandparents generation, it was expected to be part of the parental duties; not something for which you tried to get a book contract.

Nevertheless ... life is odd. Call it The Secret or call it plain ole faking it.

Joel and I decided to re-commit ourselves to writing with this blog project.

Because of that, I decided to read novels again, which I had neglected for a year or two. I read a book called "Sin" by Josephine Hart. She wrote "Damage" which was filmed with Jemery Irons.

Because of that, I found the framework for a story that has been lurking in my mind for some 20 years now.

Because of the blog, I connected with a blogger through Joel. Her name is Jennifer and writes a wonderfully witty, self-deprecating and literary journal-type blog called Quidite.

Because I read her blog, she reconnected me with a particular Raymond Carver story that is relevant to one of my short stories.

And now, a few odd, random things happened for which Horace Walpole coined the term serendipity:

My daughter spends the weekend with me and wants to go to the public library. We do. She wants to spend time in the young adult section. I spied a "For Sale" rack by the entrance and tell her that I will be down there. And there, low and behold, amid the 70s remains and paperback mystery surplus books, is a hardcover collection of Carver short stories. It's three dollars. (No, I shit you not. Three dollars. Even the librarian who gave me change for my five, was surprised at my find -- doubled checked the penciled price and reluctantly released the valued volume.)

Ok, ok, that particular story was not in the collection. But, as my mother used to say: Don't confuse me with facts. The upshot is that I WILL find the relevant Carver short story. I DO have the structure for a long overdue novel. And I AM writing more these days than I have in a few years.

So we get home, my twelve-year-old daughter and I, and she asks me if I have ever had the experience of knowing beforehand what is going to happen in my life. As in Deja-Vu, I ask? Well, no, not that. THAT she has frequently, she says. (Which is a whole other intriguing matter.) But knowing much more in advance. Like seeing things.

Hmm, now I am wondering about my entry from a couple of days ago. I don't want to burden her with a vision I had of myself when I was a teenager of being a loner and now worrying if it might become a self-fulfilled prophecy. Too much information for a twelve-year-old.

Is my experience of this writing blog and reconnecting with fictional inspiration the same thing that she means. Am I a poster child for The Secret? I recognize the serendipity of it all, but no, I don't think that is what she means.

What, exactly, does she mean by that question?

My daughter is an uncommonly evolved person for her age. (Has been at every age.) Precocious, some say. She is adept at evasion and though I probed (without wielding a two by four) she sticks with simply the statement that she was asking ME if *I* had that experience. She was not talking about herself, she says.

Hmm, let's see, I think to myself. I knew I wanted a newspaper when I left college, and ten years later, I had one. I knew I wanted to grow my father's manufacturing business when I took it over and, within a few years, I was entering international joint operating agreements. Does any of that count?

Fake it until you make it?

The Secret?

Create your own reality?

Serendipity?

Or am I just a lucky Sunday child who has a bit a brains, the fortune of being born white in an absurdly rich country, with enough means to make my dreams come true?

Any way I look at it, I have precious few excuses for not being responsible for my own happiness.

PS: How did I finally answer? I said that I know that I have had those kind of experiences but I couldn't remember specific examples. And that is God's honest truth. I also told her that sometimes the world works in ways we cannot fully explain or understand. It is best just to accept it. And trust it.