I know I’m flying too close to the sun when I start believing I can beat the bookies.
I started betting two years ago, on tennis matches mostly. I was obsessed with odds, swept away in torrents of sums. My system had just one flaw: it didn’t work.
The odds, I discovered, are empty. Probability predicts only the past.
Which, by the way, makes me feel more hopeful about writing. For although the cards are stacked against us, they collapse like houses of cards when met head-on.
Lately I’ve tried spreading the risk by betting both ways, with much the same success as before (i.e. none). And no wonder. As the ‘gambling fool’, Randle P. McMurphy, from Ken Kesey’s novel reminds us, ‘you hit or you sit’.
So I’ve decided to sit. I don’t want to be next to fly over the cuckoo’s nest.
First China, then Korea, Vietnam and Laos, all the way along the chain to India.
No, that’s not my travel itinerary but rather the projected march of Communism through Asia according to the Domino Theory, itself an idea based upon the domino effect.
Of course, the theory never worked in practice – it was only a theory, after all.
To see the domino effect at work you need only look at my life, and at the genesis of this very series of posts – dubbed, you’ll recall, the daily 12-dozen.
An interview on a podcast gave me an idea for a book which made me think I had to start a writer’s group but to do so I thought better I’d kickstart my blog and a competition hinted at how I might do it.
Down they go!
Ever wonder which domino will be next to fall?
Carmel Bird is holding a writing workshop here in Hobart next week. That’s good. Ms Bird is an Australian literary legend, something most tutors can’t claim to be.
What’s not so good, though, is my reluctance to attend.
So why won’t I be making a creative comeback with Carmel, having spent years hiding my literary lights – dim though they be – under a bushel?
Money, first of all. I’m on a ‘smash the mortgage’ kick at the moment so there ain’t much left over for luxuries, literary or otherwise.
Pride, too. I hate admitting to myself – less so to others – that I’m not king of this writing caper. Did I tell you that I’ve published three stories?
And anxiety, last of all. About writing to please others and not just myself. Therein lies the secret to my startling (lack of) success.
Carmel, here I come!
Frustrated. It’s one of those rare things: a song by The Knack that isn’t ‘My Sharona’. It’s also what I’ve been feeling for months. For decades, even, if I count the rest.
I’m no different, I know, to all the other unfulfilled lucky white guys who ever lived – in Maslow we trust – and yet knowing this doesn’t make my frustration any less, er, frustrating.
Or bearable. For a day doesn’t go by without me dreaming up some half-baked solution.
What is it, then, that I so badly need to let out? Energy? Emotion? Spermatozoa? I think not. Words, most likely: those little whizzbangs that build up in people like me, people who know they’re not being noticed.
The antidote? Writing, of course. A daily twelve-dozen (d12d) words on any trope, topic or theme.
I write therefore I am. Half-baked if ever I heard it.