Charlotte is trying to reassure her friend that he is safe, that Zuckerman is not going to turn him into Christmas dinner. Of course, everything she says comes true, except for the part about Wilbur living forever. Although, in a way, Wilbur has achieved a kind of immortality through E. B. White's little book. Fame and immortality, that's a pretty tall order for such a small, humble pig.
Tonight, my daughter is auditioning for a ballet at her dance school. Sleeping Beauty. Of course, she goes into the auditions with no preconceptions. She doesn't care if she's Sleeping Beauty or Ballerina #1 in the chorus. My daughter just loves to dance, and she loves her dance friends. Her goal is to simply have fun. She doesn't care about fame or immortality.
As a writer, I care about fame and immortality. I want people to read what I write. I want to achieve a brand of immortality through my words. It probably isn't going to happen. I've written over two thousand posts now. My blog has racked up over 200,000 pageviews (224,348 to be exact). When I walk down the street or across campus, people do not point at me or whisper to their friends, "There goes Saint Marty."
I'm not like my daughter. I have preconceptions. Humility is not one of my stronger attributes. If I audition for Sleeping Beauty, I want to be Princess Aurora Rose, not some nameless background dancer. That's just who I am. Unfortunately, this character trait is the cause of much disappointment in my life. Each letter of rejection from a publisher feels personal, as if my entire life has just been judged and deemed worthless.
Maybe I should take a few lessons from my thirteen-year-old daughter. Focus on the fun.
Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Lot, there lived a painter named Cam. Cam was not a great artist. In fact, in kindergarten, his teacher took away his paints and paper and told Cam he'd better go into a trade better suited to his abilities. Like sheep herding or pig farming. But Cam would not be discouraged.
Cam painted every day. And every day, he washed his brushes at night and went to bed happy, dreaming sweet dreams of artistic glory.
One day, as Cam was painting a seascape on a beach near his cottage, a knight rode by on a horse. The knight stopped beside Cam and gazed at what was on the canvas.
"May I ask," said the knight, "what you are painting?"
Cam looked up at the knight. "This is a picture of the Sea of Lot on a stormy day," Cam said proudly.
"I have been to the shores of the Sea of Lot," the knight said. "I have seen waves the size of elephants crashing on the beach. The wind sounded like a great battle between sea monsters. And the very air was full of foam and salt."
Cam nodded at his painting. "How did I do?"
"Have you ever thought of taking up pig farming?" the knight said.
Cam shook his head. "I was born to paint," he said.
"Says who?" the knight said.
"Says I," Cam replied.
The knight shook his head. "Mayhaps you should paint something you know, sir," he said. "Something from your own experience."
Cam smiled. "Every Saturday, a group of dogs comes over to my cottage to play poker."
The knight laughed. "Dogs playing poker?" he said. "Nobody will buy a painting of that." The knight spurred his horse and trotted away.
Moral of the story: The knight didn't care for Cam a lot.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
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| I'd buy this painting |
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