The article that follows is the Introduction section of my upcoming book, The Devils In Your Details. This is a revised version. More chapters and excerpts are coming soon.
Introduction
The
most noteworthy thing about this book may be the unexceptional status of its
author. Unlike writers who publish self-aggrandizing verbiage and trust in
their fame to draw in readers, I’m neither a rock star nor a celebrity. I don’t
hold any degrees in psychology or philosophy. I fully expect this book to be
self-published and selling in numbers that fall short of the double digits.
That one positive review you might see online would likely be written by one of
my friends.
There’s
a simple aphorism, however, that merits this book’s existence: Writers write.
In fact, when they don’t write, they get up to all sorts of
self-destructive distractions. On the other hand, the reason behind this book
is rooted in the outgrowth of a previous project I was involved with – a
YouTube channel. Though the channel primarily focused on reactions to – and
reviews of – metal and other music, somewhere along the way I began to discuss
the meanings of the songs I would analyze, and that led to musings about life
and how best to live it.
Eventually,
a few people commented with suggestions that I write a self-help book.
Personally, I’ve always taken issue with that terminology; as the late great
George Carlin once said, “If you’re looking for self-help, why would you read a
book written by somebody else? That’s not self-help – that’s help.” And yet,
proper nomenclature aside, I took the advice to heart.
Ultimately,
I wanted to craft something deeper than a simple “help” book. I wanted it to be
equal parts advice and introspection. I knew that the latter of those two
things must be driven by a certain humility, which I must demonstrate by
admitting that even as I seek to advise and inspire others, I still have so
much more to learn, as well.
I
realized that I had a multitude of philosophical thoughts and feelings on life
and this world we live in, which I wanted to condense into something
comprehensive; something centered around my personal outlook, yet with enough
objectivity to balance the anecdotal and the tangential with the rational and
the relatable. I wanted to write a book that would provide someone reading it
with an actionable understanding of the world and society, albeit filtered
through my own lens of moderate life experience and background.
I
believe that there are two ways in which we process the passage of time in
relation to our own wellbeing: we strive continuously to better ourselves and
our lives, or we go passively through the motions, only ever engaging in what’s
fleeting, easy, and gratifying. I’d like to embody the first example – and I
sometimes do – but I fall victim to the habits of the second all too often. We
all do. Those two ways of being, after all, do not represent a dichotomy, and
we operate in either category at various moments in our lives. But damn it, we
would like to strive to do and be better, wouldn’t we? Actually, many would
answer that question with a resounding, “no,” or perhaps they would outwardly
say “yes,” but it would be a lie.
We
live in a time where people generally want what’s easy and temporary, rather
than what’s difficult and lasting. People of power, wealth, and influence have
long since caught on to this chink in the armor of human nature, and have
capitalized on it with ensorcelling methods, particularly the apparatus of
social media. This was yet another motivating factor in my decision to write
this book. I want to properly elucidate how and why striving for a better life
and a better self is so important, and I’m asking you to take that journey, page
by page, with me. If you’ll forgive a bit of autobiographical self-indulgence,
you’ll find that it’s tempered with demure introspection, humor, and insight
that can be of benefit to myself as much as anyone else.
From
Carl Jung to comic books, Satanism to ‘Seitanism,’ and moral relativism to
mimosas, I take no offense if this book is seen as a back-alley, discount
version of your favorite New York Times bestseller, yet if it also
proves to be a veritable bible for the alternative, countercultural layman,
then my work will have proven to be of some consequence. It all comes down to
what my words mean to you. I know what they mean to me – at least, I think I
do. Somehow, I often find that when I put my views down on paper, I discover
things about myself to which I was previously ignorant. That’s a large part of
what this book is about: taking full accountability for oneself. Personal
identity is a burgeoning efflorescence; a garden never quite fully cultivated,
as there is always another seedling waiting to be hatched.
If
this abundance of words seems intimidating – or, for that matter, pretentious –
rest assured that I never set out to write something bogged down by lecturing,
riddled with personal agendas, or defined by self-righteous finger wagging. I
want the views and ideas that follow to be challenged with careful reflection
and consideration, counterbalanced by the personal views and understandings of
each individual reader, and concluding with the affirmation that I’m not
perfect and I don’t have all the answers. Like all of us, I’m just muddling
through.
I
don’t want to sell you my version of life, nor would I want to encourage anyone
to emulate my views or behavior just for the hell of it. Align yourself with
what you read here only if it makes sense to you, and just as importantly,
continue to press on even when some of my statements or opinions raise your
hackles or set you on the backs of your heels. Question and examine that
resistance, there might be some important lessons behind that feeling.
Even
as I write this, I have to address the possibility that, rather than be caught
up in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, you may still be wondering why you
should feel or contemplate anything in regard to what I have to say. Bereft of
college degrees, lofty titles, or endorsement quotes on this book’s back cover,
it’s easy to dismiss the words I put forward here. We’ve been trained to
believe that celebrity, academia, and politics are the primary parameters
within which knowledge and wisdom ought to be espoused in written form. Yet
many members of each of these categories may be cloistered by their own myopia,
unable to see beyond the blinders of their own cliques and echo chambers.
Let’s
not forget that for every Keith Richards, Richard Branson, Richard Dawkins,
Obama, or Oprah, there’s someone out there with a name and face you don’t know
who has a story to tell. It might be the homeless veteran on the street corner
asking for change, or the man quietly birdwatching in the park. It could be the
captain on your flight, or the woman cutting your hair. It could be the person
you see looking back at you in the mirror, and that’s probably the best place
to start. Everyone has a backstory, but few have the ability to tell it to a
broad audience.
Well,
I’m no entrepreneur or television personality. I’ve been a pedestrian and a
passerby; a peasant with an empty wallet, a sense of style, and strength of
character, and I also just happen to be a writer. Why not direct such a talent
toward a singular goal that has benefits not only for my own personal
evolution, but that of others?
So,
I’m going to tell my story. If there’s some rule barring autobiographers who
don’t fit a certain economic bracket, I’m breaking it. If the follower count on
my social media platforms doesn’t justify my worth in the eyes of people who
count such things on an imaginary abacus and sit in judgment, tough shit.
As
I swivel about in my office chair, looking in turns at my cat for moral support
and my posters of Lemmy Kilmister and Cristina Scabbia for inspiration, I find
myself recalling a moment that underscores the very point I was trying to make.
It
happened back in 2007. I was waiting for a bus on Union Valley Road, in the
town of West Milford, New Jersey. The bus shelter I sat in was small and
innocuous, and it was a Saturday, so one could expect it to be frequented by
bored teenagers en route to the local mall, and older New York transplants
ready to begin their commute to work. It was rainy and rather late in the day,
so it was occupied by neither. I myself was on the way to visit some friends
back in my hometown.
Within
minutes, a highly eccentric looking older man approached, having exited the
nearby doughnut shop with his coffee in one hand. In his other was one of the
most interesting canes I had ever seen. Its handle was shaped and painted to
look like the head of some kind of bird, and there was some kind of floral
print on its staff. The whole thing was colored a rich cherry mahogany. The man
wasn’t so much leaning on it for support as he was letting the beak of the bird
head rest on his wrist, so that the cane swung pendulously as he made his way
to the bus shelter to sit down.
Of
the man’s physical appearance I don’t remember much, other than mid-length
white hair and a bedraggled beard, and clothing that seemed new and well cared
for. He also wore glasses with thick rims and yellow-tinted lenses; they rather
reminded me of something Jeff Goldblum would have rocked back in the 90s. You
can imagine how unexpected this all might seem in the “downtown” area of a middle-class
New Jersey exurb at one o’clock in the afternoon, especially when he looked
nothing like the average person you’d see in such a place at any time of
day.
I
do recall that he wore a backpack adorned with various stickers and patches
that seemed to represent a collection of travel souvenirs, bearing the names of
different cities, states, countries, and attractions. I remember seeing
Georgia, Montana, Niagara Falls, some kind of national park that seemed to be
in a country below the equator (Los something or other), and some other place
that I knew at the time was in the UK but which I now no longer remember. There
were plenty of others that also evade my memory.
After
a few sips of coffee, he set the backpack on the ground at his feet, pulled
from its main compartment a book whose name eludes me (though the hardcover
tome was old, thick, and weatherworn), and began reading. He spared not so much
as a glance in the direction of the eighteen-year-old goth/metalhead staring at
him with total bemusement. I myself looked anything but average at the time,
with my hair dyed white with silver-tipped bangs, black eyeliner, and large
black-and-red pants inlaid with chains and studs. I chalk it up to my ego at
the time, but looking back, I think I was insulted that, for once, I wasn’t the
center of shock and attention.
Eventually,
bus 197 arrived and I boarded. As I took my seat and glanced out the window, I
came to a surprising realization: the old man hadn’t gotten on the bus. That
was the last I saw of him, as he continued to read his book while the only bus
in town took off to its next destination. Somehow, that made him even more
mysterious and fascinating in my mind. Why would such a man, clearly an
out-of-towner, enter a bus shelter with no intent of going anywhere? Especially
someone as clearly well traveled as his backpack indicated? Perhaps he was
merely looking for someplace to sit and read, and the bus shelter provided the
only reprieve from the spritzing rain. That seems the most likely explanation,
yet as I sat aboard the 197 on the way to the next town, I don’t think I
considered it. I was too intrigued by how starkly different that man had
seemed, at a time when I respected and admired eccentricity and exceptionalism.
(I still do.)
Through
the onset of gathering clouds and the beating of raindrops against the bus
window, one thing pierced the overcast backdrop to my journey and became
abundantly clear: that man had stories to tell.
As
do I.
I
want this to be more than the culmination of my travels and experiences,
however. I want this to provide the impetus for your own journeys –
particularly your internal ones; those that take place in the psyche and the
spirit. I want to set you on a path where you feel glory, not shame, in looking
into a mirror and spending a few moments admiring the contours of your face or
the luster of your hair. Where you are self-confident enough to cast aside your
machismo in the face of a hurtful situation and muster the courage to tell a
person they hurt your feelings. Where you stand with a collective only when you
know why and for what purpose, rather than because you’ve been told it’s
“correct” or that everyone else is doing it.
A
path where you use one hand to welcome and embrace someone who treats you with
love and encouragement, yet reserve your other, to be raised in firm opposition
when people seek to assault your mental and spiritual wellness, or compound
your insecurities with admonishments or backhanded compliments. Where picking
yourself up when you fall is a frequent and welcomed responsibility, not a
desperate last resort associated with being at rock bottom. Where you replace
poor self-esteem with unconditional self-love, not thinly veiled narcissism.
Yes,
the prose can get a bit grandiose at times. Again, I will err on the side of
relatability, not pomposity. I won’t make the case for any self or life
improvement “just because.” I’ll provide real stories, examples, and fair and
balanced rationales as to why it’s so important. This book isn’t intended to be
dogmatic, but rather, pragmatic. The idea that life is something that one can
immediately and extraordinarily rewrite and reshape is one rooted in
romanticization and hubris. The idea that one can take steps to make
substantial and valuable differences in one’s life is, on the other hand,
practical.
I
can assure you that I hold myself to my own set of high standards, and any
personal advice that follows will reflect those values. This also means that
I’ll be dispensing with any impropriety when it comes to my personal stories
and accounts. So, while everything I have to say here will be as honest and
committed to memory as I can make it, the names of people will be changed in
order to protect their privacy.
As
reassurance for anyone with doubts, I’ll detail my interactions with such
people in a way that aims to communicate life lessons and nuggets of wisdom,
not to tarnish reputations, drag folks from my past through the mud, or
resurrect petty vendettas that were put to bed long ago. It’s my intent that
any stories shared in this book prove truthful and constructive, not malicious
or libelous, and it’s my sincerest hope that any shades of subjectivity that
may color such anecdotes are seen for what they are, and not cast in a negative
light by anyone reading this who might take umbrage with certain portrayals or
characterizations.
And
of course, not all of my stories will be summaries of bad circumstances, bad
people, or bad things. It just so happens that I believe a bad time reinforces
personal growth, whereas a few too many good times navigate circuitously around
such growth. This isn’t always the case, but wherever lessons were learned and
moments of development were seized and valued, there are stories to be told. Even
in dark times. After all, any writer worth his salt knows that conflict makes
for good stories, and this holds just as true for non-fiction.
There
will, however, be a great deal of space given over to positive and
life-building experiences, and to tie it all together, a conclusion reached as
to why the good, bad, and morally gray all play a role in shaping and informing
who we are, and how coming to terms with these things can send us on a destiny
run toward who we have the potential to be.
You
may know about the Chinese military treatise The Art of War. Unlike its
author Sun Tzu, I’m only a writer and not a fighter, but I’m here to tell you
that self-empowerment is an art of its very own, much as is writing itself.
Artists bear the exhilarating burden of being both Dr. Frankenstein and the
monster. We create and recreate new versions of ourselves each time we take
steps to grow and evolve, but we often grapple with the very personal demons
that we ourselves contrive. The silver lining to this hard truth is that we
have the potential to control, and – if necessary – rein in the versions of
ourselves that we create. We can revel in the beast we unleash from within, or,
as the doctor did in the story of Frankenstein, we can retreat into Mont
Blanc out of shame and fear, unwilling to accept our true selves. Both the
power and the burden lie simultaneously within us.
I’ll
conclude by stating that it’s my purest and paramount hope that people read
this book, despite the obscurity of its author. It’s my understanding that the
value of life must not solely be expressed in quantities of money, popularity,
or influence, but rather, fundamental understanding, knowledge, wisdom, and
feeling. Discussion of life should include those voices that exist on the
margins of main stages and bright spotlights, and on the side streets and
alleys, where perhaps names and accomplishments are less widely known, but are
sometimes equally significant to those in the top one percent of society.
The
steps to strength and success, after all, are built neither in lofty towers of
wealth and greed, nor in bitter basements where visions are never shared,
feelings are never expressed, and ideals are never strived for. As with most
things in life, the tone of empowerment is struck not on polarized ends of a
spectrum, but somewhere in between.
You
must ask yourself, however, if you prefer the illusion of power, or the true
power that dwells within oneself, waiting to be stirred up in a hurricane-like
fury and brought to the surface, made manifest in all its fearsome glory. If
you’re searching for the former, you may set this book aside and resume your
addiction to the fickle, inconsequential chump change offered by social media.
If you seek the latter, keep on reading.
To borrow and utterly alter a quote from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, “We ought to seek happiness in tranquility, but never, ever avoid ambition.”
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