Lesson 1 - Decide to Write

Writing does not begin with writing.
And succeeding at writing does not depend entirely on the act of writing alone.

Writing does not start when you put your fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper.
It does not even begin when you create an outline or map out an idea or create your characters.

Writing, if you intend to be successful at it, begins before all of that – before outlines and
certainly before word counts.

It starts with a mindset.

It starts with:
Deciding that you are a writer
Establishing your identity as a writer.
Building up your confidence in doing so.
Laying down the groundwork to start acting like one.
Taking your writing off of the pedestal that you have it on.
Breaking writing down into manageable chunks.
Approaching your writing like you do everything else in life: one step at a time.



The common theme? It starts with you.


Writing depends on building up your own confidence as a writer.
Writing depends on the commitment to seeing yourself as a writer.
And it depends on you deciding that you are writing.

Before you do anything in life and before you set out to achieve any goal, lofty or otherwise, you
have to commit yourself to it, mentally. The degree to which you set yourself to your goal is
directly proportionate to whether or not you ultimately achieve it, and the more resolved you are
in your thinking, the more likely you are to see the results for which you aim.


You become what you think about.


Everything worthwhile begins as an intention. All considerable success and all big
accomplishments start as a thought or inkling, and the probability of achieving something lies in
whether or not you set yourself to it, and to what degree.


So, plant the seed.

Say to yourself that you are going to start writing – or write a book. Say it with resolution, and
repeat it with sincerity. State it in a way that makes it seem genuine; deep-rooted, and hold it
very close.

Decide with resolution that you intend to write, and then state that objective all the time. Remind
yourself every morning – or right now, whatever time of day it may be – that you are already a
writer, and that you intend to write.


Keep reminding yourself of this decision.


One caveat is that you must believe in your goal entirely. One would assume that you are
already naturally talented at writing… or in the very least have a sincere interest in doing so –
beyond the superficial “I just think it would sound cool to publish my work.” One would assume
that if you want to write, it is because you are drawn to writing for a substantial reason, and that
that reason is worthwhile.

If this is not the case – if you are only writing for the sake of writing, or you want to write
because it sounds cool or the idea of being a best-selling author is appealing because you want
to impress your old high school classmates, then I would encourage you to find something that
is better worth your time. You are meant for something else, my dear, and you can have
greatness if you only choose to pursue a field that really brings that out.

(Which may not even be writing. And that is okay.)

If, however, this assumption does apply to you – if you are writing because you love to write,
and you are a natural writer, then welcome. I urge all us to first discover our natural talents, and
then organize these strengths into an actionable objective, learning from it as we move toward
that goal. Stating our goal – and repeating it or writing it down every day, especially in times of
low productivity – is invaluable in determining our eventual success.

Writing a book or writing in general must be, for whatever period of time – whether it is one
month or one year – a clear and definite aim. It cannot be a wayward “maybe, someday, not
today” sort of thought. It cannot be a fuzzy “maybe, kind of” sort of ambition. If it is, you will most
likely fail. If you approach your own writing as a disposable task – something that you “might”
start to fit in “if there’s time” – then you will undoubtedly never make it your first priority, and you
will never be the writer you could. You will not see success in your writing.

Without an actionable goal – one that you believe in and are passionate about accomplishing –
you will undoubtedly fail. The primary cause of failure is having no definite, specific aspiration
against we are measuring our actions from one day to the next; no target at which we can direct
our energies.


Without a clear objective, we flounder.
And when we flounder for too long, we fail.

Do not drift aimlessly in your thoughts regarding whether you will or will not write. We have
already agreed to agree that you are, on some level, a writer. And if you are a writer, on
whatever level, permit yourself the right to actually write. Decide this.


Decide with certainty and resolve.


Go into this with the conviction that you will actually write – that you are committed to the task –
and you will see the task itself unfold more easily

Introduction

 These lessons are for the person who simply wants to write – to either start writing or write 

more. Specifically, this for the person who wants to succeed at writing – however he or she may 

define that success. 

And this book is for you, in particular, if you: 

•  Want to begin writing – Maybe you are someone who has always wanted to write something – a “book,” a “novel,” or a “best-seller” – but has never been able to get word onto paper.  
• Want to write more – Maybe you write occasionally, but not very often. You journal at night but then keep your writing close, preventing any possible readers from finding it. 
• Maybe you even have a blog and you publish periodically, but you really want to blog more.  
• Want to finish writing – Maybe you started the novel but never finished. Maybe you tried to write one and threw your pen down before you were done. Maybe you felt overwhelmed by the task at hand and never finished it, and now it lives somewhere in the back of your mind, reminding you all the time that you would like to finish.  

The information here emphasizes the foundations of being successful at writing, because they 

are drawn from the laws of how to succeed at anything.  

These lessons that I have learned in the last six months, both in my own writing and reading I 

have done on the subject of success.  

Here, in ten lessons, I want to share with you what I have garnered. 

Detroit | day one (that is: initial thoughts)

Detroit is absolutely everything I had imagined. I wish I had come sooner, maybe, but am also glad I came as soon as I did. I am sure, incidentally, that I will be back many more times.

There are so many moments when I feel intellectually stiffled - when I feel utterly alone in my position on an issue and furthermore, in staking it, utterly alone against everyone else's opposing views.

Detroit was one of those things.
People can be so shortsighted; so literal.
"Why Detroit? Don't go - you won't like it."
"Yes. I will." I countered time and time again.
I knew I would.
And I do.

"But it's so... sad." They would say, binding the place up in words poorly suited to it.
"No." I would correct. "It is fascinating. Don't you think it's fascinating?" Always, though, I knew: the answer was no.

It fascinates me how we can build out a city - put so much love into creating these architectural gems - and then watch them collapse in economic hardship. These are not, after all, ordinary buildings. Detroit was expected to be (was?) something incredible - a source of substantial pride in the United States - and, for the first part of the Century, it was. And they built it accordingly. But then the economy collapses and, with it, their physical landscape. That is utterly fascinating - the evolution of a built environment as a reflection and manifestation of her people. It's even more interesting when it suffers a slow demise.

Of course, there were not so many words. I sound too preachy - or too heady, maybe - and I always get cut off.

Detroit is, unsurprisingly, utterly everything I had imagined... it is, I think, absolutely my favorite city

(more to come...)

Detroit | Michigan Building

Not enough has been written about the Michigan Building. Even the name itself implies a degree of anonymity; far less specification or importance than is warranted, given the story.

It is, I think, the most magnificently heartbreaking building I have even seen.

The entire structure is a manifestation of Eros and Thanatos - a true symbol of the sheer amount of love (energy; resources) a city can pour into her landscape, only to later lay out snares; to entrap herself, gut herself, lay her own skin stretched flat under the sun - inside out - to dry, before using it as a rug.

Such is what has happened here.
With the Michigan Building.
And nobody talks enough about it.

It is baffling - and fascinating - to me that we can come together and create something of this magnitude, as a reflection of our achievement; a testament to our capabilities; a reward for our collective success; an object of enjoyment - and then, in a single lifetime - in our own - together slay the creation; rip it apart.

They left the plaster molding intact.
It is a crude appendage of an era barely remembered - an era that has been lost, her artifacts destroyed. Everyone who enters the space is immediately aware of its barbaric reuse: the evidence of the destruction everywhere.
Everywhere.

Even the beams at one far end of the incredible, yawning, hollow space are still, after all these decades, clutching desperately to the heavy, dark burgundy fabric that hung over what was once the stage.
It is a ribbon, most surely from the pigtail of a child long gone missing, found weathered and tattered, tangled and caught, in a chain link fence.

To say that moment is marked in "heartbreak" is, you can understand, an understatement.

It is a gruesome reminder of what it once was, and what we have done.
Such is the Michigan Building.

Detroit | a cherished landscape

I love Detroit.

I am captivated by it; consumed by its poetry. There is no other place quite so mesmerizing, as far as the accidental art of an urban landscape goes, as Detroit.

And, to be clear, that is the real merit: "accidental."

It is not nearly so interesting to see something that was intended for your consumption, positioned in such a way so as to seem more beautiful to a passerby than it truly is - everybody loves the frosted windows; nobody considers the trash dragged out the back.

In Detroit, nothing is hidden. Everything is raw and honest. It has to be. It has no other choice but to stand, bare breasted, with stretch marks and scars outlining the lines as they really fall, drawing hashes over our airbrushed mental image. She stands, with blemishes and burns across the body; all the while with her face turned upwards into the hot, hot summer sun.

I love her for that. I am captivated by her sincerity - the simplicity and circumstantial display of everything that we are taught is ugly. While everywhere else, we see things nipped and tucked and tanned and toned and then turned, in just such a way, so as to dazzle and taunt; mislead and manipulate, here, in Detroit, we see only what it is - what is real, straightforward, "unpretty." And yet, as we look, she is also unmoving - accepting our gaze, unapologetic, as we stand there feeling very much as though we, too, are staring at the sun.

There is so much beauty in the grittiness of things - so much more aesthetic depth and richness to a landscape that evolves exactly as it was meant to, without pretending that it didn't. Here: the textures of broken glass and falling brick; the cacophony of a city's fabric tearing apart at the seams; dozens of textiles, strewn about in the streets or stood up along their edges.

One scarcely has to point and click, and the photo turns out beautiful.
I said that about Santorini, too.
I mean it more with Detroit.

Aesthetically speaking, never before have I seen such an interesting subject in a city. Where every other city's photos have been captured a million times, every story a regurgitation of another, here I feel that the images go on forever - I could stay for weeks and still discover more; turn a corner, widen my focus or narrow it, and see something new or different. I feel as though it is a fresh story - one just now being written and (unlike horrific Vegas) one that will not - cannot - be scripted, but must rather be written organically.

Perhaps I'm glamorizing - romanticizing.
Or, perhaps not.

From a study of The City as a reflection and manifestation of her people, Detroit is my favorite.
And I want, somehow, to be one of them.

Why I hate Vegas (it's not what you think)

Vegas and I don't see eye to eye.

We were destined, from the beginning, to exist apart from one another. For me, Vegas' role will always be the acquaintance kept at arm’s length rather than the hot fling she is for everyone else.

Vegas embodies everything I dislike. It is not because I'm opposed to gambling - I think gambling is fine, in and of itself (and, quite frankly, each time someone writes off my feelings for Vegas as an issue I must instead have with gambling, I kind of write off their intelligence.) Vegas has an identity that runs deeper than gambling. Everyone knows what the issues are; few take the time to name them.

So, in the interest of clarify, here's my critique of Vegas:

· It’s fake. The lighting is artificial. There are waterfalls falling out of and into nowhere. They pump oxygen into the air. (While I’m at odds with just about all the Vegas properties, it should be said that The Venetian’s “always-3 pm sunlight gondola” gives me some serious heebie-jeebies.) To be clear, I do know that, for many Vegas visitors, the charm lies in the fantasy. People often try to win me over by saying: “it’s like Disneyland!” (Often they emphasize their point by adding “…for adults!”) And yes, I can see the similarity, but that fact would carry a lot more weight if I liked Disneyland. But I don’t. (That shouldn’t surprise you – again, I too see the similarity...)

· It's maliciously deceptive. This is deeper than artificiality alone. I know that the people around me are being seduced and duped, and I don’t like that feeling. It's like sitting in a bar and watching a nice girl fall for the good-looking, charming guy who dresses well, smells nice, and tells her what she wants to hear. It’s a sinking feeling to later watch her leave with him. She sees him as the materialization of a dream. He sees her one of countless girls with whom he plays out this choreography every single night. And to suggest that she “knew what she was doing" - just like Vegas visitors - while it may be true, doesn’t ease my discomfort that she’s being had – just like so many people who make mistakes because they’ve “fallen for” the casino environment. Knowing this is happening isn't "part of the fun" for me.

· It's creepy. The "Big Brother" element weirds me out. Folks marvel at the sophistication of Vegas hospitality. I sleep in until 2 pm and the maids will never once knock on my door. The moment I leave my room for more than 5 minutes, though, my bed's made when I get back. That's not "cool." It's creepy.

· There is no community. Nearly everyone in Vegas is either transient or paid to be a part of the experience. There is no feeling of depth, and there are few genuine "locals" who can actually vouch for anything without being paid to do so. There are no roots and no relationships. (In other words, everyone may “know your name,” but it’s from a place of showmanship rather than sincerity.)

· There is no substance. Sure, gambling is obviously the biggest revenue for Vegas. The second biggest, however, is conventions and conferences. If your second largest economic driver is empty space, you don't have a soul. Plain and simple.

· I don’t like the way it makes me feel. Women aren’t regarded very respectfully in Vegas. We don’t just get checked out by men; we get “valued.” Money buys you a lot in Vegas - to most of the guys strolling the casino floors, every woman is there to be paid off, and they have no qualms about eyeing her accordingly. I don’t like that.

To be brutally honest, my sentiment on Vegas is that it’s a place to escape the real world when the reality you’ve built isn’t good enough. And because I so deeply value the process of investing in a rich reality for ourselves, I will always be incompatible with a place that stands for escapism and emptiness.

buildings | feathers

The buildings of small towns seem, to me, like feathers stuck in a barbed wire fence.

Driving on road trips from Chicago to our respective childhood homes, JD and I often pass through small towns. Very often, these small towns have one or two buildings originally erected, years before, to meet a specific purpose and have, since then, spent decades in slow deterioration; the paint blistering away to infinite tones of gray.

Seeing them prompts me to wonder about their story. I wonder how they got there, how long they’ll hang on like that, clinging. There’s no apparent ecosystem of infrastructure to validate or support their presence. They merely are, with little reason to be; as such, they could cease to exist altogether one day, and nobody would be the wiser.

Buildings in cities, however, are the feathers of a bird. One doesn’t have to wonder about their existence; for the most part, their story is immediately apparent. You don’t have to agonize over a building’s longevity, either: should it ever cease to be where it is, another will quickly take its place.