The Other Side of Success

The Sitting in Silence Newsletter

Hello and welcome back to Sitting in Silence, the newsletter about writing, craft, worry, and joy.

My parents were hard workers and provided an iconic 80s lifestyle for my brother and me. Well, iconic except for the fact that there weren’t and never have been any southern suburban upper middle class Black families on TV. But I digress. Ma worked in home health care, and Dad excelled first as a high-flying car salesman and later as a finance manager at the dealership.

We lived in an orange ranch style house 13 miles from New Orleans’ city center. Two cars sat in the circular driveway. And as the children of a car salesman, both my brother and I had sweet rides at 16 that reflected our personalities and, uh, bodies. My brother got a muscle car, a fire engine red Ford Mustang. Very fitting for the guy who came home with a “most handsome” senior superlative trophy. An awkward chubby kid who dressed like the librarians at the library where I volunteered (lots of oversized sweaters and penny loafers), I got a Volkswagen Quantum, a car I’m still not sure actually existed. My first car was so nondescript and forgettable that I’ve never met anyone who knows what it is without googling it. It was plain on the outside but had a busy yet refined interior life. Like me. In other words, I adored it.

But I’m still digressing.

What I really wanted to tell you about is the fall of 1987. But first we need to stop at the Christmas of 1985 when the hottest toy in the nation was the original Nintendo Entertainment System. (Yes, kids. I that old. They’re slogan: “Now, you’re playing with power!”) Every kid wanted one of these video game consoles, and you weren’t anyone if you didn’t have one under your Christmas tree. The NES was expensive and hard to find, so my parents were noncommittal about whether I’d get one. So, I concocted a three-part plan guaranteed to make me the owner of a sleek, gun-metal gray NES: (1) I’d make sure my grades were stellar; (2) I’d make the case for why I deserved a console; and (3) if all else failed, I’d appeal directly to Santa Claus himself. In other words, I was stealing the plot of 1983’s A Christmas Story to get what I wanted. I’ve always been a good interpreter of other people’s melodies.

Long story short. It worked. By the time the new school quarter began in 1986, I was leaving my brand-new NES on all day while I was at school so I could pick up where I left off when I returned home.

A year later, Nintendo had figured out that the real money was in accessories. They were selling all manner of add-ons for the greedy enterprising child. There was a Twister-like mat that I wasn’t interested in. Calisthenics were for gym class. Also, there was a toy gun called the Zapper because in the 80s we thought giving a child a Dirty Harry-sized revolver was appropriate. But the one I wanted was called the Advantage. It was dinner-plate sized controller with a large joystick. I can’t even really explain why I wanted one so bad. But I remember clearly that it was the first thing I was ever truly obsessed with. I guess you could call that love. Pretty sad? Maybe. But perhaps I wasn’t that different from many other children in the “Greed is Good” Reagan 80s.

I lusted after that controller. I fantasized about it at school and as I laid my cheek against my pillow at night. I woke up thinking about it. I imagined how much fun I would have with this device that supposedly made every child into an unstoppable video game wizard and also into Jerry Lee Lewis. I kid you not.

In any event, one night, Dad brought me to Children’s Palace, the now defunct toy warehouse. I always loved to play the arcade games in the foyer. That was where I first encountered Donkey Kong and regular (not Super) Mario Brothers. R.I.P. Children’s Palace. We found the last box of the toy in the store. And I did my best to not show Dad how possessed I was. All I wanted was to tear the package to shreds with my teeth and embrace my new love right there on the cold tile floors. I’m sure that if Dad would have looked into my eyes, they would have been swirling hypnotically.

I even recall the price. The Advantage was on sale ($5 discount) for $44.95, which was the massive amount of money I worked for and saved to buy the doohickey.

Smash cut to home the next day. (It needed a battery, which I didn’t have, so I had to wait to play with it.) I lay on my belly with the controller fully-unboxed. I can’t remember what games I played, but I can tell you, the experience was…underwhelming. The controller was actually too big for my pudgy, little hands and even when I could hold it correctly the buttons and levers were jerky and awkward. I was a worse video game player with the device than without it. In other words, the controller should have been called The Disadvantage. (*rimshot*) I used it for maybe another week or so. Then, I relegated it to a box in my closet where I probably remained until Hurricane Katrina came 18 years later. Notice I said “I” there? A fitting Freudian slip. It’s because a piece of my innocence got packed away that day long ago.

Why am I telling you about this? Well, on one level it was the first time I became acquainted with both obsession and heavy weight of massive disappointment.

But for me today, the lesson is different. The lesson is about success and how we respond emotionally to getting what we think we want.

For years, a pattern in my life was working diligently toward a goal, achieving the goal, and then feeling letdown. I experienced this in my corporate law life many times. I’ve seen it out in the world with others, too.

It can hurt to get what you want only to realize your expectations were too high. This can breed cynicism and nihilism because if even having your dream come true doesn’t make you happy, then what’s the point of any of this?

I even saw it in my writing life for a while. I’d publish something and get a good response. Or I’d win a prize. I’d ride that wave for a day or a few hours. Then I’d feel…smaller, grayer. I might try to chase that high, but it never worked.

That’s when I realized something.

“Live in the moment, Maurice.” What? “Stop chasing the future and appreciate the rightnow.”

I’ve said many times in this newsletter and on the podcast that writing should be a joy. The writer should simply have a good time while writing. Because wouldn’t it suck to suffer for years writing a book, have a good moment when it comes out, and then fell terrible the next day?

This happens more often than you might guess to people who are quite successful.

To give one personal example, my experience has been this: I give a good reading in front of an enthusiastic audience with a fun book signing afterward, then I go to my hotel room and think, “why’d it have to end?” Years ago, this existential angst was very painful. But today, I know that it’s just a feeling. I can acknowledge the feeling without wallowing in it. I can even anticipate the feeling. Now, the letdown wave is more like a trickle because I have perspective.

Now, when I have a good writing-related experience that ends, I tell myself to downplay the letdown and up-play the gratitude. I’m fortunate to get to do what I do and isn’t that great? And I’ll most likely get to experience the good times again. But there’s something else.

Often, the real joy in life is in the anticipation, the creating of the future we want. We write a great chapter. We should embrace that feeling. We give a good reading. We should embrace that feeling. And the next morning we should acknowledge no one can ride the wave indefinitely. All surfers must eventually return to shore.

If I could tell 1987 Maurice anything, I would tell him to hold onto that joyous anticipation. To giddily chat with his friends about what he wants to do when he gets The Advantage. I’d tell that boy to let his imagination run wild with possibility. He could finally beat Super Mario Brothers and in record time. He could fly to space as Kid Icarus and discover life-changing secrets in The Legend of Zelda. Then I would tell him to buy that controller with the money he saved from cutting grass, wrap the box, and donate it to the Christmas toy drive.

And if he asked whether he did the right thing, I’d say, “sure, kid. Now, you’re playing with power.”

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Thank you for reading Sitting in Silence. And yes…The American Daughters is now a National Bestseller. Thanks to all who bought a copy! I appreciate your support and reviews.