Stealing Home

My father has a couple of expressions.

A day without larceny is like a day without sunshine.

And . . .

If you aren't cheating, you aren't trying hard enough.

Not bad expressions. Granted, they are not, "Do unto others," or anything from the Bible--Dad's an atheist. It's not Socrates, "An unexamined life is is not worth living." They're not run-of-the-mill "dad-like" expressions. I don't know . . . what do dads usually tell you? You see, I was well into college, my parents were visiting, and stealing everything in the Hyatt that wasn't nailed down--there are REASONS hotels nail things down. My father is one of them. I had plants from their lobby in my college apartment. Sugar bowls. Creamers. Plates. Silverware. Towels. I STILL have some Hyatt washcloths, but since it was twenty years ago, I can admit this now that the statute of limitations is over. Anyway, I was well into college and meeting my friends' dads who were bankers and so on . . . and they were most definitely not like my dad. And I was, for the first time, REALLY glad my dad was my dad. Life was not boring. In short, Grand Theft Hyatt taught me a greater appreciation of my father. I suddenly "got" that I had a unique perspective on the world, and I should nurture it rather than ever conform.

Which leads me to the point of this blog. I must thank Ewoh, who visits here, for reminding me of something very elemental, but good to keep in mind. I write MY story.

You see, I admire, very much, Neil Gaiman. The man is a genius. But he writes HIS story. Whatever that is and however it gets filtered on the page. And I can't write Neil Gaiman's story, any more than he can write mine. My story is unique, and the experiences that made me who I am were all necessary and vital and they brought me HERE as a writer to THIS moment in time. And I have MY story to write.

Some people may look askance at my Hyatt washcloths. My sugar bowls. I no longer commit petty theft--along the way I became a Buddhist and there's this karma thing. But it was MY journey and, man, I wouldn't trade a single bit of it. I love my dad and mom with all my being. And I wouldn't trade a minute of it. I have my story to tell. You have yours. Remembering that keeps each of us from envy. We can admire someone else's work. But in the end . . . you've got to write your story. From your unique set of experiences.

Thoughts?

And if the CEO of Hyatt calls, I will deny ALL of this.

Peace,
E