In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me a piece of advice that I’ve been running away from since. He told me that the hubris of my being, the fatal flaw that both makes me spectacular and doomed is my belief that I can do anything. I have no fear of failure. I have never approached anything with doubt that I cannot get it done. It was always only a matter of learning how to do it, and then I could do it.
What’s more is that I’ve never been proven wrong on this theory of myself and my abilities and it may only lead to, as my father suggested, digging my own grave.
Poppycock.
I have read and re-read The Great Gatsby a dozen times as a student, a teacher and a fan. It was always utterly apparent that Gatsby had this fantastic idea about life. That he could make it what he wanted. Didn’t he though? He truly did, he made it as the American dream poster boy, straight from Dust fields to gold dust on his fingertips. I say only that he loved he wrong woman. Had she reciprocated Gatsby’s love he’d not be in the mess he’s in now. Again, I digress.
That idea of himself that he held took him around the world. He learned to sail, to be a soldier, a businessman and even to some extent, a gangster. He never saw anything as an obstacle.
I have that in common. James Gatz and Marquita Medley have ended, and it may have been about the same age. A different name, an inherit, indestructible view of oneself and one may be able to obtain anything they desire. Even something as grand as re-writing history.
A Muse Meant for Writing 