debate

The Debate Between Doubt & Faith ~ 2016 Reprise

img_5458

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or misfortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around for this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my husband, my family, those I love, my dog and my country—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. Because we are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many, it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day, their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full and the sun comes up the next morning. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way.

One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. They fight it tooth and nail. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that if you come face to face with your doubt—play devil’s advocate.

So I learned to stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He brings flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, he comes loaded with evidence and everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. Names we’d all recognize.

He sweats like a pig and drinks water while he feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning the color of eggplant, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it grounds me, and number two, it’s against the rules and this throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.

While he wavers, I state my case. “While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way; when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong!” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life, the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction—the more I started believing it.

Someone once said, “Faith is the act of believing what you cannot yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said that which makes sense because you’d have to be able to perform a miracle, like a brain swap, to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude for exactly where I’m standing.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

The Other Debate—Between Doubt And Faith

img_5458

“Doubt kills more dreams than failure ever will.”

I am, by nature, one of the most optimist people you will ever have the good fortune, or mis-fortune to meet, depending on your mood.

After being around this long, I’ve developed the faith that things are always working out for me. (And when I say me I mean my country, my husband, my family, those I love and my dog—just to be clear.)

But, and I can say this from years of personal experience, a deep reservoir of doubt runs just under the surface of us optimists. We have a profound and abiding respect for it and unless you cohabitate with us or secretly videotape our most private moments (sicko), you will most likely never see it overtake us. We are extremely skilled at keeping it under wraps.

For many it can be a struggle. Yet, at the end of the day their cork always bobs to the top, their glass remains half-full. Pessimistic curmudgeons never fight with themselves this way. One half of them says things suck—and the other half agrees.

Sometimes…I envy them.  

Many describe their doubt as an adversary they meet on the battlefield. I was taught by a wise so-and-so along the way, I can’t remember who, that you have to face your doubt—and play the devil’s advocate.

It helps me when I stage a doubt and faith debate.

Instead of silencing my doubt or smothering it with chocolate sauce and salted peanuts and scarfing it down at midnight by the light of the refrigerator — I let it have its say.

When Doubt takes the podium he is disgusting—puffed up with hot air, bloated with confidence. He has flow-charts. He quotes statistics. You have to hand it to him, everything he points to has a basis in fact. He produces pictures and movies to remind you of past failures. When he thinks he has you on the ropes, he brings out a panel of experts who can back him up.

Don’t you fucking hate panels of experts?

If you’re like me I can only listen to his bullshit for so long before I start to argue—and that’s when the debate begins.

He can recite from memory an article he read or a study that was done which PROVES my dreams will never succeed. “I don’t believe that!” I interrupt. Then I site the exceptions, because if there are exceptions, well, then his theory sucks. I name big names, important names. names we’d all recognize.

He drinks water. He feigns ignorance.

“Look around you”, he demands, his face turning purple, “There is SO MUCH EVIDENCE. Nobody’s happy in their job, nobody likes what they do, what you hope to accomplish is impossible! Besides that, people are miserable. And they’re fat.” He stuffs half a Reuben with extra sauerkraut into his mouth between jabs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I step away from my podium for full effect. I have bare feet because, number one, it’s against the rules. And it throws Doubt for a loop. Doubt is most definitely a rule follower.  And number two, it grounds me.

“While I cannot argue that there are those who may feel this way, when I look beyond all the flotsam, I see hope. And possibility. There have always been people like me—like most of the people I know—who despite all of the cautionary tales still run into the arena.”

Doubt shakes his head in exasperation. There is mustard on his chin.

“It’s easier to be scared and quit. Believe me. I know. But as more and more of us poke holes in your lousy logic, it deflates… like a flaccid balloon. And everybody knows you can’t win an argument with a flaccid balloon.”

“Wrong.” he bends low and hisses air into his mic. “Wrooooong.” His eyes are squinted closed as he all but disappears behind his podium.  He knows I’m right.

Doubt had his say and the more I argued for my crazy, optimistic, why-the-hell-not way of life the more I stood flat-footed in my conviction. I started believing it.

Corks bob, glasses fill—and there’s the win.

Someone once said “Faith is to believe what you do not yet see.”
I think it was Bill Murray or some other saint who said it. It would have to be a saint because to maintain faith and optimism in this day and age, well, that would really be a miracle. But then I think about living in the middle ages with no indoor plumbing and only porridge to eat and I feel a sudden wave of gratitude.

See how that works?

Carry on,
xox

Donald Trump. Seriously?

image

I’m writing a screenplay, and a musical, and what that means besides a whole lot of hair pulling and teeth gnashing is: I have to be able to tell a compelling story in a little over a hundred pages (depending who you talk to) and write dialogue. Lots and lots of snappy dialogue.

Hopefully, I can raise my game and it will be much smarter and funnier than anything I could ever hope to say.

Every day I re-read the pages and ask myself (or the character) How can we say that better?

When you do enough homework on your characters (one year and a half of character development for the play), you can put them in almost any situation and they’ll write the dialogue for themselves while you sit back and take dictation. If I get stuck I’m too much in my head, over thinking things, and I need a chocolate break.

How can we say that better?

Sarcasm is too easy. Irony is sarcasm’s older, smarter brother.

A well-articulated fight scene is better than a simple Fuck you!
Fuck you is too easy. It’s lazy.

When two characters are able to state their respective points of view in a witty and entertaining way, well, jackpot!
If they stoop to hurling witless insults it bores me, and the next day it won’t make the cut.
Again, it’s pedestrian writing. Much too uninspired.

I’ve started to translate this way of thinking to my personal life. I can’t tell you how many times a DAY I demand from myself:
How can you say that better?

Am I mad; or sad? What’s my motivation here? Do I have a compelling argument or do I just need to eat? Will I lob a Fuck You or will I say what I mean?—You hurt my feelings!

The reason I bring this up is that I’m extremely disappointed in the G.O.P. Even more so than usual.

What’s with the huge public support of Donald Trump and why are they backing him by having him at the debate tonight? He’ll bring to the debate what Mike Tyson brought to the Evander Holyfield fight. If he feels outmatched, he’ll get frustrated and make the easy choice—he’ll fight dirty. He’s the verbal equivalent of an ear biter. And he’s incredibly mean-spirited.

He has elevated public humiliation and mean spiritedness to a spectator sport. People are going to tune in just to see who he will verbally eviscerate, and I for one am disgusted. Do we want a bully for President of the United States?

Does he have a platform? Can he form an argument that doesn’t insult my intelligence? Can he actually debate? My nineteen year old nephew could craft a better argument than what I’ve heard from him so far.

In our school debates we would be disqualified if we leveled verbal “low blows” disguised as insults.
We had to know our shit, We had to have done our homework. No ear biting. Mean was not allowed—too easy. You’d look foolish and lazy if you showed up unprepared.

As I’ve watched him spew his vitriol, insulting a war veteran and an entire race of people, just to name a few, I’ve wanted to scream at the television.

Donald! How can you say that better?

Do your homework! Stop being so lazy! Stop acting so banal!
You don’t think McCain’s a war hero? Tell me about your deferments!
You want tighter immigration restrictions? Lay out a better plan than having Mexicans build a wall.

Insults should get you disqualified.
Mean spiritedness shouldn’t get laughs. Really people? Humor is smart. Insults are not.

Tonight, Donald Trump will take the place of, and steal the spotlight from, another candidate who is articulate and better qualified. Right? I mean, I’m as disenchanted as I am I’m certain that man exists.

The stakes are high you guys. This isn’t his reality show boardroom—it’s a run for the Oval Office.

Will Trump become the Presidential nominee for the Republican Party? Stay tuned to this developing plot in his latest reality fiasco.

And as sick as that possibility makes me, as a Democrat, I hope so.

Carry on,
xox

Hi, I’m Janet

Mentor. Pirate. Dropper of F-bombs.

This is where I write about my version of life. My stories. Told in my own words.

Join The Mailing List

Join 1,304 other subscribers
Let’s Get Social
Categories
You Can Also Find Me Here:
Follow

Get every new post on this blog delivered to your Inbox.

Join other followers: