Jim Moorman's Blog

I’ve attended more than a few seminars, conferences, and corporate retreats over the years. Some were life changing while others were just o.k. Regardless, each presented an opportunity to improve myself in some way, either professionally or personally. I’m a huge fan and proponent of personal and professional development. I don’t believe there’s ever going to be a time in my life when I’m not able to learn or discover something new.

The self-discoveries that are usually the most profound (for me) are the ones in which I comprehend something I’ve heard a dozen different ways to that point but never really got it. I’ve learned over the years that people get what they get when they’re ready for it.

I was recently part of an executive retreat with some colleagues and friends from different businesses. We invited a facilitator to attend and offer some training around improving our communication skills. She was awesome and offered a ton of great insight. It was one thing she said, however, that I took away as my “pearl of wisdom” from the program. She said something I’ve heard a hundred times before, but wasn’t ready to understand. She said, “We do what we practice.”

 It seems so simple, right? And you’ve probably heard it before, too. We do what we practice. Growing up, I’d heard, “practice makes perfect” a hundred times a week from my mom or dad. In the Navy I heard, "perfect practice makes perfect.” And in the corporate world, I’ve heard a dozen different variations from, “test and measure,” to “work smarter, not harder.” All the sayings represent the same basic principal – We do what we practice.

So then the question for me became, “What is it that I practice?” I went right for the obvious choice. My career, role, job, and other roles in my life like father, son, friend, etc. What I missed was what I hadn’t been ready to understand to that point. What kind of thinking do I practice? That’s the gold. That’s the real question I hadn’t ever though to ask. And once I decided to ask the question, I was a bit startled by what I discovered.

I’ve been practicing a lot of negative thinking, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m punctual, but because I don’t want to deal with the ramifications and conversations around being late. Nine times out of ten, I’m not punctual because I’m genuinely excited to get where I’m going. It’s a simple example, but it’s a good illustration about a way of thinking. I choose to think that way just like I choose to wake up and dread the day ahead or welcome it. I’ve been thinking of my life and my work as a way to survive, pay the bills, and hopefully give my daughter the things she needs to survive so that one day she can pay the bills. I’ve been hard on myself for not progressing as fast on the new book. I remind myself regularly of what I don’t have, what I can’t do, and what I’ll never be. It’s become a way of thinking. It’s what I’ve been practicing.

But it doesn’t have to be what I continue to practice. The mindset and way of thinking can be changed and transformed. We see it happen all the time. A guy has a near death experience and suddenly realizes that there’s more to life than surviving. A young woman struggles to deal with a breast cancer diagnosis and then fights. She changes her way of thinking. She makes that choice.

So thank you, Alana Winter, for reminding me that my mindset and my way of thinking is my choice. I now know that positivity and looking forward is a practiced way of thinking, and until I practice changing my way of thinking, it never will.

 “ I believe 'love' is very nice to hear, but it's used so much that it's come to a point where it's almost meaningless. ”

~ Park Chan-wook



Well, Mr. Park, I love South Korea.



It’s not a place I ever thought I’d love or a place I had ever even wanted to love. Like all great romances, she was thrust upon me without any real choice in the matter. It was 1998 and I was in the Navy. They said I’d be heading to Turkey but when my orders came in, I was told that it would be S. Korea I’d be calling home for the next two years of my life. I was young, single, and ready to meet any and all challenges in my path. I had hoped those challenges would be waiting in Hawaii. The universe, however, sent me a little further East.



It was day two when I crawled out of my room in the south hooch, still jetlagged and rotting in the same clothes in which I’d arrived thanks to Korean Air losing my luggage. It was morning so people were either working or sleeping from a late shift. I wandered for a bit and eventually found my way to the building where I was to meet my new boss. After explaining the reason for my extremely casual attire, I got the tour and was told I’d have a few days to settle in before I’d be added to the schedule. I welcomed the respite and headed back to the hooch. By this time, a few of my fellow residents were home getting ready for dinner and the night’s festivities.



Todd and Ted were my first two friends. Todd was short, but what he lacked in height he made up for with smarts. He was extremely quick-witted, and talked twice as fast. He processed information like a human computer and was always busting somebody’s balls. He also sported quite the dashing mustache. In appearance, Ted was Todd’s polar opposite; tall, heavy, and kind of intimidating. Everything he owned smelled like cigarette smoke and he listened to death metal almost exclusively. How it happened I’ll never know, but I somehow convinced both of these guys that I was cool enough to hang with so they invited me out.



Still on East coast time, I was starting to hit my wall around midnight. The crew was still getting ready. Todd casually informed me that we’d be heading to Wally’s for a few pre-game beers and to chill with him for a bit before hitting the bars. Utterly confused, I looked at my watch (because we still wore watches back in 1998) and said,



“It’s midnight. The bars will be closed by the time we leave Wally’s.”



Todd laughed and laughed. Then Ted and a few others joined in.



“You’re in Korea, son. The bars are open till dawn if they even close at all.”



I should have taken the clue right then and there that I’d have a long, drunken, two years in store, but like any good newbie, I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “o.k.”



It was around 2AM when we made it to the “hill.” It was called “Hooker Hill,” but the affectionate name wasn’t literally applicable. The district, Itaewon, was a popular nightlife area close to base and the hill housed a dozen or more bars and yes, it was on a hill.



As we strolled through the streets, I felt more relaxed than I thought I would tramping through the city of what was still a very foreign country to me. 2AM there felt like 8PM in the states. The streets were busy. Vendors were still pedaling food and the bars were just getting going. Todd insisted I try something called a meat stick. A man named Mr. Lee made them and, according to the crew, were to die for. I said sure, and  after downing three, finally asked what kind of meat it was. Nobody knew and I doubted Mr. Lee would have said anything other than cow. Clue number two that I was very far from home and all things I considered normal or even “safe” were now suspect.



I remember my first walk up the hill like it was yesterday. The street was bustling with drunk G.I’s, and military police regularly patrolled to make sure nothing got out of hand. The bars were brightly lit, some with lights against plywood signs and others with neon. They tried to cater to the American contingent by giving the bars names like, “The Cowboy Bar, and “Heavy Metal.” At the very top of the hill, though, was a bar I’ll never forget – Polly’s Soju Kettle House. After a tour of the finer establishments and a couple flashings of bare breasts by some of the juicy girls, I found myself at a table at Polly’s.



Soju is a white liquor traditionally fermented using rice, but can also be made using potatoes or tapioca. Its alcohol content varies from about 16.7%, to about 45%. It’s a lot like vodka but because of different fermentation and ABV percentages, it depended on where in the country it was manufactured as to what you’d get at the bar. Polly’s specialized in what was known as a kettle. They’d take a plastic one-liter bottle and cut off the top so it looked like a really tall plastic cup. Then they’d ask what flavor you wanted (I picked orange) and put some ice in there, some kool-aid, and a 2 full bottles of soju. Then they’d bring it to the table with some small plastic Dixie cups. Each person would pour from the one-liter container into their Dixie cup and drink. Remember, though, in 1998, there wasn’t any real regulation on the ABV, so how drunk you got was a total crap shoot.



Like a true asshole, I took my Dixie cup and drank up. Having already touted myself a seasoned drinker, I blurted out, “This is nothing. I could drink that whole thing by myself.” Almost as if uttering some magic phrase, Ted just slid the still ¾ full jug over to me and said, “All yours, buddy. Drink up.” The rest of the table acted about as casual as they’d been walking through the door. No red flags. No setup. No sideways glances. So I drank that son of a bitch down. Once complete, I held my head high and raised my arm high over my head in triumphant victory. New friends laughed and half-applauded. I was, as Nuke Laloosh would say, announcing my presence with authority.



The announcement, however, came at a cost. About fifteen minutes after finishing the kettle, my new friends wanted to venture onward. I was buzzed at this point and felt the bladder filling so I told them I’d be right back. As I walked to to the bathroom, it hit me like a Tyson left hook. My brain was somehow still functioning as crystal clear as it would have been sober. My body, on the other hand, was completely uncooperative. I stumbled and staggered, sweaty and breathing heavy. I came back green in the face and that’s when they all started laughing. Apparently my claim to be able to drink it all was something all the newbies say and it had become a sort of initiation or rite of passage. Their looks of indifference upon hearing my boastful proclamation were, in fact, practiced and well-rehearsed.



Thank god I had sense enough to memorize a few helpful Korean phrases on the plane ride. I flagged a cab and mumbled the phrase to take me back to base. Using the universal language of the drunk, I was able to somehow communicate to the driver that he needed to pull over exactly four times on the two-mile ride home so that I could, as gracefully as possible, puke on the side of the road. I tipped him well and staggered up what seemed an endless hill to get back to South Hooch.



It was mid-afternoon the next day when Ted and Todd knocked on my door, curious to see if I was still alive. Great friends, right? Ted explained that everybody does what I did and told me about his first night. He said that when he got up to head to the bathroom, he could barely walk. He said that he couldn’t hold his beer and manage his zipper with one hand, so he placed his head against the wall to stabilize himself while he peed. What he hadn’t seen was the broken bottle and spilled beer at his feet.



“My head was against the wall, I’m peeing, and my feet start sliding out from under me.”



He’d go on to tell me that, while he could feel it happening, he was physically unable to stop the unfortunate chain that followed. His feet completely gave way. His head fell straight down splitting his chin open on the top of the urinal. The force and gravity sent him flying backward where he landed flat on his back. According to Ted,



“So there I am, lying on my back in a puddle of beer and glass. My chin is gushing blood. My dick is hanging out of my pants, and I’m moaning and groaning when in walks a group of three Korean guys.”  Apparently the sight of my sorrowful friend sent them away in a hurried fashion, mumbling terrified as they did.



I was hung over. My body ached. I never wanted to see another soju kettle in my life, but hearing Ted recount his soju misadventure had made me laugh my ass off. It also let me know that I’d claimed my rite of passage and that I’d be in good company for the next two years.



 



 



 



 



 



 



 



 

I read something recently that got me thinking more about the chance events that occur in our lives. It was one of those “new-agey” reads I so enjoy. Modern-day spiritual philosophy is what it is at its core and I enjoy it. I love the idea of spirituality and all things related to filling that all too empty slice of our life wheel.

I wrote in my “Why in The Sky” article that we’re threads in a great cosmic tapestry. We intersect thousands of other threads along our journey and thousands more intersect with us for reasons and purposes we may never know.  The concept of it is pretty crazy which is why I think a lot of scientist-type folks call it random chance. To better illustrate what I’m talking about, try looking at the world through a different lens.

Let’s start with the lottery. It’s easy. Everybody knows what it is, and many have purchased a ticket at some point in their lives. In Ohio, there are a dozen different games with different odds, all of them fairly astronomical. Games like the Rolling Cash 5 ask you to choose five numbers from 1-39. The winner gets 100k and the jackpot rolls up with each drawing that doesn’t produce a winner. Odds of hitting the jackpot are one in 575,757. The Classic Lotto is a multi-million dollar jackpot that has you choose six numbers ranging from 1-49. Odds of hitting that jackpot are one in 13,983,816. So I’d have to spend 57k on tickets for a 10% chance to win 100K. After taxes, I’d be left with a profit of about 14k.

Imagine it, a big wheel with 10 equal slices like a pie. Think of the Wheel of Fortune wheel. You spin that wheel and hope it lands on your one slice. You have nine chances it won’t and even gamblers would tell you that you’re probably better off taking that 57k and putting it on either red or black on the roulette table. You can double your money and it’s close to the flip of a coin.

In spite of these odds, we still hear about people winning the lottery every day. It happens to real folks and even when the odds seem so unfathomable, people still win. Why? What’s more are all of the variables that led that person to purchase the ticket at the time and location they did. What if they’d missed that red light on their way and shown up three minutes earlier? What if they didn’t get hung up on that call or stop to chat with their neighbor prior to getting in the car? Did they buy one ticket or fifty? What about the guy who spent $100 a week for a year to increase his odds and got nothing while the little old lady who had just purchased one ticket on whim hit the jackpot.

I believe it happens that way because that lady was meant to win at that point in her life. The money would affect other people’s lives in only the way it could have by her winning and spending it or saving it. What if she made a multi-million dollar deposit into a small credit union that was on the brink of closing? What if she spent it foolishly but helped a local economy in the process?

The lottery is an easy thing to quantify on paper, but I believe that if you’re meant to win, you’ll win no matter the circumstance, how much you spend, or what day of the week you purchase your ticket. Forces inside you compel you with the desire to purchase the ticket in the first place. Many people don’t play the lottery. Similar forces compel them not to.

What about the other threads (interactions) we have throughout our lives? Did you ever think that you were meant to cross paths with someone for a reason? I believe we’re meant to cross paths with everyone we meet.

I work in downtown Cleveland and walk by a hundred or more strangers each day. I think about all the people I don’t know and those I haven’t met. I wonder about their journeys and I think about the people I have met and why I’ve met them. I think about it now more so than I have in the past. I wonder if I’m helping them along their journey or if they’re helping me along mine. I look at the people who’ve been in my life a long time and those who’ve spent some time with me only to flutter off after some shorter duration.

I dated a girl who liked me. I liked her as well. I knew, however, that I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Was her role in my life to inspire me to that realization? Was it my role in her life to act as a catalyst for her to move on and regain lost confidence? Was it simply to share a conversation that inspired a story idea that will one day become a best seller? Or was it because we were exactly what we each needed at that time in our lives?

I wonder if long relationships, especially dysfunctional ones, are just universal reminders that we’ve received what we needed and need to move on, but we resist our intuition. We know what’s best for us and who we want and need to be with and why. Our humanity, baggage, and desire all too often force us to stay or fight for something we know we shouldn’t.

I’ve learned that we are going to learn our lessons, meet who we need to meet, give what we give, get what we get, and progress along our thread whether we like it or not. We’re going to keep making the same mistakes until we learn our lessons. We’re going to keep getting prodded to realize our potential until it happens.  

Now, at least for me, is being able to wonder and hopefully recognize why I’m meeting someone. I can open my ears to what people are telling me I should be doing. I can stop resisting, regretting, and wondering “what if?” I can buy a lottery ticket and know that if I’m meant to win, I will.

I hope when we die we get to see the tapestry; all the threads of our lives compiled to produce a completed image. I wonder how mine will look. 

It’s crazy to try and comprehend. Better I think to trust and believe than attempt to rationalize.

I was born under the sign of Gemini on June 10th, 1974 at 5:21 PM. Tomorrow will mark the start of my 39th year on this planet.

If you’ve never had the good (or unfortunate) occasion to cross paths with a Gemini, we’re the schitzo’s of the zodiac. The twins represent a duality of personality, the light and dark. When we’re smiling and happy, the world is drawn to us, and when we’re down, the world would be best served to steer clear.

If you’ve read the factoids on my website, you’ll recall that, in what can only be described as a bizarre cosmic lottery, my father and grandfather share a birthday – June 9th. Had I been born a day earlier, we would have made the Guinness book of World Records for three generations born on the same day. But, as fate does, she had plans that took both of them and left me behind. Today would have marked my Dad’s 65th birthday. August 30th will mark the eleventh anniversary of his death. Today also marks the eleventh anniversary of what has become my least favorite day of the year.

Philip Charles Moorman was born on June 9th, 1948 to William and Norma Moorman. He would eventually be the eldest of eleven children, making me the eldest of over thirty grandchildren. The friendships forged during childhood would stay with him throughout his life. At eighteen, he got a job with IPC Publishing (which would become Penton Publishing). He was a sports junkie and wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer for a spell, always dreaming of the day he could make it a living. That dream was never realized, but I like to think other dreams replaced it.

At some point during his early twenties, he and one of his best friends, Dan, started dating sisters, Cathy and Mary Ann. Dan married Cathy first and my Mom and Dad followed suit shortly thereafter. He was twenty-six when I came along. My mom, twenty-three. The marriage of my parents would last seven short years. Dan and Cathy just celebrated their fortieth anniversary.

Mom and Dad bought a house in North Olmsted, Ohio prior to splitting. It’s where I grew up and, North Olmsted, when I was young, was largely Irish Catholic, which meant that my sister and I were in the minority of kid’s part of a “broken home” as they liked to call it. We were both so young that neither of us have great recall of those early years. We just knew that our parents didn’t live together anymore.

Father and son relationships are hard enough without the added element of divorce. Cursed with the impulsiveness only a gambler possesses, my old man was unreliable at best throughout my childhood. It seemed like our relationship was always strained and my Grandma would often just whisper the title of a song by his favorite musician, Harry Chapin – “Cats in the Cradle.” She’d tell him that if he weren’t careful, that song would represent our relationship and damned if she wasn’t right.

It wasn’t until I graduated high school that I formed a good relationship with my Dad. I told him I was a man. I no longer needed him to be my “Dad” in the parental sense of the word, so I was free to accept him for the person he was and not the label of the father I so easily and often accused him of failing to be. It wouldn’t be until a year or so after his death that I’d realize what an impact he’d had on my life during those years, the years in which I’d accused him of failing me – failing us. I was a kid. I was angry because I wanted him to be different. I wanted things to be different. Now, eleven years after his death, on what would have been his 65th birthday, a day before my 39th, I look back and laugh more than I thought I would or could. I think about the effort he did make and his well-intentioned ideas and I know now that given the chance, I wouldn’t change anything. Like a lot of kids, I can still attribute some of my best childhood memories to my father and even more as an adult.

It was during a heated match of Hungry, Hungry Hippos that he pulled me aside and taught me how to tie my shoes. It was his hand that let go of the bike, the one without the training wheels. It was he, the die-hard Browns fan, who, in spite of his best effort, had a son who loved the Steelers. So when he took me to my first live football game at the tender age of seven (a Browns/Steelers game in old Municipal Stadium), and the drunken Cleveland locals started cursing at me, the little kid in the Steelers coat, how proud was I when he went off on them for being as he called it, “a pack of assholes.” It was also that very game that I had my first sip of beer and peed in a trough.

He caught me my first foul ball, introduced me to Bobby Bonds, let me spend a good deal of my childhood playing video games in a bar up well past bedtime, and taught me how to love music like “The Eagles, Elvis, Harry Chapin, and Neil Diamond.” He never pushed me too hard to fulfill the dreams he didn’t. It was his unique tutelage that taught me how to bet on horses and not be afraid to take risks in life. The thought of his kids being afraid to try something cut to his core, so he’d push us off the dock, force me to keep up with my swimming lessons, and when neither my sister or I wanted to ride the big coaster, it were these words he shared, “You know the ride at Kiddie Park that you guys love, the Little Dipper? Well this ride is called The Big Dipper. It’s exactly like Kiddie Park.” It wasn’t, of course, and we hated him as we chugged up the first hill and begged him to ride it again when we pulled in to stop. He was a bowler, so I bowled. He was a golfer, so I golfed. He was a gambler, so I didn’t gamble.

As an adult, I learned to appreciate his sense of humor and sarcasm. He’d crack joke after joke, usually offending several people in the process, but he had the unique ability to whip out zingers when you’d least expect it. I remember one Tuesday morning sitting in his office; I was busting his chops and he was hung over from bowling the night before. He said, “You know what I think? I think you need a penile enlargement. Because you’re a little prick!” Then there was the time we for our annual “Rite of Spring,” which consisted of an afternoon spent at Thistledown, the local track, followed by drinks at The Lakewood Village Tavern. His words to me as we walked in:

“If the bartender asks, you’re not my son. I don’t want her thinking I’m that old.”

There was also the night we all went out to a Cavs game and headed out after. I had to be up at six to set up for a meeting (I worked for him at this time) and implored at one AM when we’d be leaving. He said, “after this drink.” An hour and three more CC & Ginger’s later, I insisted. Completely disgusted, he barks to the barmaid,

“Sorry, Lisa, we have to go. My son needs his fucking beauty sleep.”

Philly was the one who made sure we got tickets to the Eagles “Hell Freezes Over” tour and that my sister and I were loaded up with copies of newspapers and memorabilia from the Indian’s 1995 and 1997 World Series appearances. He also made sure we were at the games. As an Indian’s season ticket holder, we saw plenty. He was the guy who was genuinely crabby the Birthday he renewed his driver's license and the DMV would no longer allow him to call his hair "black."

We shared moments every father and son should share. We also shared moments no father and son should have to share. When he told us that he’d been unexpectedly diagnosed with stage four-lung cancer at age fifty-three, I was the one who drove with him to my grandma’s house so that he could tell her. During that ride, he said he’d fight with all that he had, but, bottle of whisky in hand, he acknowledged that the odds weren’t good. Like the long shot horses he so loved to bet, his chances were slim. We were quiet for a few minutes on the highway when he calmly asked, “you know what I’m going to miss the most?” I just glanced over not really knowing what to say. “Never getting the chance to meet my grandkids,” he replied, taking another pull of the Canadian Club whisky, tears streaming down his cheeks.

His last words to me the night he died were, “I love you, son.” I squeezed his frail skeleton of a hand and told him I knew and that I loved him too. I told him I was sorry for having been so hard on him over the years and he just grinned and drifted off. I’d get the call a few hours later letting me know he’d passed.

We didn’t leave anything on the table. I was given the gift and opportunity to say goodbye. I was given twenty-seven years with him. I learned lessons I hadn’t ever thought needed learning. I miss him every day and wish he were still here. I wish he could see and know his grandkids. But lady fate had different plans for us. As I reference in my “Why in The Sky” article, I’m left with his legacy, his gift to me. It’s this legacy of laughter, folly, the art of taking risks, and following your dreams that I’ll share with my daughter as she embarks upon her journey and I continue along mine.

Happy Birthday, Big Guy. Hopefully you’re golfing with your buddies, enjoying a few cold ones, and you remembered to invite Harry Chapin.

Cheers to you,

Jimbo

PS

If you’re reading this wondering if I was able to keep it together while writing it, I did pretty good! A couple long pauses, some watery eyes (for those who know me, you know that in itself is something), and two Summer Shandys.

Philly as a young man and me as a baby

How I remember him

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, you read that right. Good job continuing to master the art! Keep going, though. There’s more mastery to be attained.

You probably learned to read somewhere around the age of five or six. Words and sentences became part of your daily existence. Through practice and progress over time, you eventually became a polished reader. You graduated from See Spot Run, to Judy Blume’s Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Then you met Holden Caufield in Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye before being thrust into the wonderful world of William Shakespeare. You wrote your book reports and learned about conflict, character, and plot. Then, ready or not, you were thrust into college or the workforce and, before you knew it, you became a fully functioning adult.

Now we’re adults and we still read every day – advertisements, spreadsheets, news articles, stock tickers, comic strips, and, of course, bills. But what kind of reader have you become since the high school book reports? Chances are good you may not even know.

One important element I’ve come to appreciate about readers is that, no matter their preference or brow (highbrow or lowbrow), they typically enjoy a good list. It’s definitive, structured, finite, and bulleted – perfect for the average human in today’s ADD-laden world.

I’d love to tell you that the list below represents years of hardened research and case studies, but it doesn’t. It’s based on my observations, questions I’ve asked and noted over the years, and my personal experience. While no list is ever perfect, mine is pretty damn close. Readers typically ascribe to one primary and one secondary category. I’m an Information Gatherer/Writer Reader. What type of reader are you?

 

Reader Categories

The Information Gatherer

These inquisitive souls can typically be found perusing Internet or magazine articles, websites, newspapers, brochures, cereal boxes, labels of varied assortment, cookbooks, racing forms, coupons, and any other piece of writing that will offer answers to asked (and more often) unasked questions.

I’m (primarily) an Information Gatherer. Most of my reading time is spent on articles that will, in some way, answer a question I didn’t even know I had. What are the five keys to relationship success? I never would have thought to ask but now I must know. What were those Japanese Olympians so upset about? There will surely be an article that can answer my question. I read at least fifteen or more articles every day. Sports scores and stats, headlines, industry news, humor columns, and select blogs are at the top of my list.

Information Gatherers are not adverse to the occasional novel, but are primarily fulfilled by many tidbits, factoids, and articles that serve a specific purpose. The writing contains facts, is long enough to add value, but not so long that it has to be put down and picked back up at a later time.

In the immortal words of Lt. John Kendrik (Kieffer Sutherland in A Few Good Men,):

“Lieutenant, I have two books by my bed, the US Marine Corps handbook and the King James Bible.”

Lt. Kendrik – A classic Information Gatherer.      

 

The Casual Reader

These folks are exactly what the name implies. They may be your significant others who have books on the nightstand they’ve been reading for three months and are about halfway through. They read the occasional article and would likely be hard pressed to name their favorite author. If they do, it’s usually a recognizable name that will pass muster in social circles like Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. They’ll read a couple books per year at best and often have to be prodded to do so. Reading for these folks isn’t a big deal. They get their information from television or radio and are A-OK doing so. For the Casual Reader, life often presents activities outside the printed page that they would much rather enjoy.

 

The Voracious Reader

These readers are the exact opposite of the Casual Reader. These are the hardcore people who are always reading something and usually in record time compared to the rest of us. My stepdad and grandma are Voracious Readers. If I pop in unannounced on either of them, there’s a 90% chance I’ll catch them engrossed in their latest literary treat.

Typically, Voracious Readers are fans of a specific genre. Grandma likes romance novels and my stepdad likes crime mysteries. Once hooked on a genre, the Voracious Reader plows through one book after another by the same author and then, like a hungry termite, moves on to the next.

These are the readers who have read enough to know about the structure of a novel, pace, character development, etc. They know good writing from bad and will leave reviews. God help the new author who unknowingly wrongs a Voracious Reader. The Casual Reader will put the book down and move on. The Voracious Reader finishes a bad book if for no other reason than to let the author know about it. These readers are what every author hopes to find and woo but never upset.

Voracious Readers have made reading a habitual part of their lives and have better brains for it. The late Stephen Covey said that, “reading is for the mind what running is for the body.” Voracious Readers certainly have fit minds.

 

The Academic

The world of academia is a universe unto itself. Like a parasite that feeds off a host, so do Academics feed off each other. Unless you’re part of this universe, you wouldn’t likely know of its existence. Educators spend their lives in the pursuit of educating themselves and others. They go from high school to college to a Master’s program to a Doctorate degree. They pontificate, write theses, dissertate, and receive meritorious accolades within their universe.

Professors compete for grants to conduct research and attain greater knowledge in their field.  The never-ending quest to become published in a scholarly periodical becomes their ambition. They compete with each other and become so filled with knowledge that many of them should probably take out hefty insurance policies and walk around with helmets at all times to protect their big brains.

Their reading is comprised almost entirely of subject matter papers and the occasional highbrow literary work. Academics are usually gifted in the art of snobbery and know (and use) more four syllable words than many of us knew even existed.

 

The Literary Snob

A novel like mine would never appeal to this reader. Literary work is different than genre work in that genre novels use the same basic plot elements and rely on characters and fresh stories to exist. A perfect example would be a romantic comedy. Boy meets girl (a “meet-cute”), boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy makes grand gesture at the end of the story to win girl’s heart and complete his inner journey and character arc. Insert funny best friend for both boy and girl who seem way too involved in our main characters’ lives, and you have a ready-made romantic comedy.

Literary work, on the other hand, is to fiction what gourmet food is to the discerning palette.

Literary work is often focused around a character’s inner journey and literary authors use their stories to explore life themes and inner struggles that far exceed that of the dime store detective. Classic tales like Melville’s Moby Dick or Hemmingway’s The Old Man and the Sea are classic examples of great American Literature.

Literary Snobs (I’m using the term affectionately) will swoon over a well-written sentence and bathe in metaphor-riddled prose the way most of us bathe in sweat on a ninety-degree day. Literary Snobs tend to be extremely critical of non-literary work and, while they may appear to those in the industry as sort of elitists, they aren’t. They just like what they like and have a much more refined literary pallette.

There’s nothing wrong with this group, as they are typically students of the written word. They are English majors, Creative Writing majors, and logophiles. Writers wishing to appeal to this seemingly snobby ilk would be well served to make sweet literary love to their work before sending it of for review by a Literary Snob. Well-scribed, the literary novel will undoubtedly elicit a word climax from even the most frigid creative writing grad.

 

The Groupie

Groupies are nothing more than Casual Readers with low self-esteem. These poor souls know how to read but don’t know what to read. They rely on their friends and popular culture to unearth for them their next book choice.

How many young girls who read Twilight did so of their own volition?  Twilight, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, and Fifty Shades of Grey were all ushered into the forefront of popularity via the Voracious Reader. The Voracious Reader, as we know, is a reading machine and banner-carrier for those books they have discovered, enjoyed, or connected with in such a profound way they feel compelled to sing the book’s praises from the hilltops and insist that all of their friends read and heed their recommendation. This is why, as I stated earlier, every author hopes to satisfy the literary craving of the Voracious Reader.

The Groupie reads primarily because they can’t be left out of the collective conversation. All their friends are talking about evenings of self-gratification spent mentally copulating with Edward the vampire. The Groupie simply has to see what all the fuss is about. Only when the Groupie has offered a tale of intense orgasm to thoughts of Jacob the werewolf will she (or he) be accepted into the readers’ circle.

Groupies are easily identifiable. Should you ask someone to list the last three books they’ve read and hear three very popular titles, you’ll have met (and identified) your first Groupie.

Please note that by listing popular titles, I’m in no way saying they’re poor works. I loved Harry Potter.

 

The Voyeur

This class of reader is by and far my least favorite and most annoying. Voyeurs are the people who keep tabloids in business.

You can immediately spot a Voyeur when seemingly ordinary topics of conversation become quickly thwarted into tales of the latest celebrity gossip. They can’t get enough. They would rather read about a Hollywood split than a major news story. I’ve also found that Voyeurs are typically very needy in the attention department, which is likely why they gravitate toward the drama of Hollywood. I’ve found women are more prone to this category but I know plenty of men as well. Most of the men of this class I know are political junkies. Washington DC is the Hollywood of the east- dramatic and entertaining. While the Voyeur can and will read the occasional novel, it’s usually a non-fiction biography.

 

The Businessman/woman

These savvy folks have attended a business seminar or two in their time and have been convinced that most, if not all, reading must revolve around the never-ending pursuit toward the attainment of the almighty dollar. Growing, squeezing, pinching, tightening, and managing the pennies are what this group of readers is all about.

It’s a billion dollar a year business – the business book business, that is. I made a sale last week in an untraditional fashion. Read my book and learn how to gain the competitive advantage today.

I jest and exaggerate. I have nothing against this group of readers. I’ve read many a business book in my day and, as an Information Gatherer, I find many to be somewhat helpful. If I have a single annoyance with this group of readers, it’s that the business folk rarely seem to entertain the idea of relaxing with a good work of fiction. They see it as leisure time and a waste. Ironically, it was some wicked smart author who wrote that concept in a business book somewhere. It makes me think of the old “don’t watch TV in the dark” adage. Who said it was bad to watch TV in the dark?

Yep, the light bulb people.

 

The Social Media Reader

Until a few years ago, this category didn’t even exist. Now, we have a society of people who have learned to communicate (and read) 140 characters at a time. It’s so bad that I see people every day read nothing but Twitter and Facebook posts.

Sure, it’s still reading, but it’s not quality. It’s clever, anecdotal, sometimes crass, and chalk-full of acronyms that I puzzle daily to understand. I was just tweeted the phrase YOLO the other day and, like an idiot, had to look it up. It means you only live once. It is now #1 on my most hated list of twitter acronyms. Following closely behind are ROFLMAO, and LOL.

Once consumed by the social media monster, these readers are not only less willing to read actual prose, but are becoming dumber for their effort. Slang, acronyms, and anecdotal wit are all they read, so they, in essence, train their brains to think in this manner. While social media connects us all in a way that’s never been done before, the quality of writing and what we’re consuming in the way of daily writing is the weakest it’s ever been in our society.

 

The Writer Reader

This is a very small group of readers in the world of which I’m unfortunately a member. As a writer and author, I’m no longer able to read for pleasure. While I can certainly try, I’m constantly looking at craft element/style techniques other authors employ as a way to further their stories and plots. As a student of the craft, my brain is now trained to study rather than read and it’s often maddening. Without this habit, however, I would never grow and learn. Therefore, I read a ton of books, often in my genre, for several chapters before moving on to the next. I have to force myself to read a book all the way through and not tear it apart or look for this or that. To the other Writer Readers of the world, I extend to you my deepest sympathies.

 

So there you have it, ten of the most common reader types according to Jim Moorman. Where do you fall on the list? Will you ever aspire or challenge yourself to become a Voracious Reader? I can only hope you do. And should you ever choose to write, know that Mr. Covey says that, “If reading is for the mind what running is for the body, then writing is for the mind what running a marathon is for the body.”

When I was young, my father told my sister, brother, and me to read every day, even if it’s just the sports page. He knew the importance of reading and its benefit to keeping our minds sharp. I read to my daughter all the time and work to help her broaden her vocabulary by sharing several words that convey the same idea.

Reading is at the heart of what makes us intelligent beings.  So, whether you’re a Voyeur, a Casual Reader, an Information Gatherer, or any other type of reader I didn’t categorize or define, read something every day, even if it’s just the sports page.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Boston Marathon bombing happened. The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary happened. A dozen other horrors like these have happened in my lifetime – Okalahoma City, 9/11, two wars in Iraq, one in Afghanistan, and one in Vietnam, plane crashes, natural disasters like Hurricane Katrina and the tsunami in Japan and Thailand. There are dozens of stories on the local news each week talking of murder, accidents, and the death that courts each of us daily.

No matter the tragedy or the time or stage of my life when it happens, I default to the basic human question of why. Why did this have to happen? Why did those innocent little children have to die? And who are the sick bastards that perpetrate these heinous acts and why?

I was recently asked to speak on the meaning of life – why is it I’m here? I kept it light as I always do and hit the high points of my mortal existence; to experience joy, love, sorrow, and overcome countless obstacles in the pursuit of cosmic perfection.

Post-speech, however, I felt bad, like I’d swindled people out of an honest answer to the question. I copped out and pled the fifth, stating that at the end of the day, I didn’t really know why I was here – why any of us are here. The truth is, I do know, and by sharing my thoughts on the subject, hopefully you’ll find some morsel of meaning for yourself and perhaps a bit of comfort in the face of yet another National tragedy.

The question of our existence isn’t a new one. Humans are hard-wired to find reason and meaning in just about everything. “Why” is probably the most universal question we ask. My five-year old daughter plays the “why” game with me all the time.

“Why are we going to the doctor?”

“Because your ear is bleeding,” I say

“Why is my ear bleeding?” she asks

“I don’t know. That’s what the doctor will hopefully tell us.”

“Why will the doctor be able to tell us?”

“Because he has special instruments that can see in your ear.”

“Why don’t you have special instruments?”

You see the pattern and I’m sure you’ve played this maddening game with the little people in your life a time or two.

Well in case you haven’t noticed, the phenomenon doesn’t end in adolescence, adulthood, or old age. The only things that change throughout our lives are the questions. Teenagers ask why they aren’t popular. Young adults ask why they didn’t get the job. Middle-aged adults ask why their spouse isn’t happy anymore. Old folks might ask why they don’t get to see their grandkids as much as they’d like. I want to know why my dad had to die at age 54. Why does my daughter have to be robbed of the opportunity to know him the way we did? Why has my book not yet sold a million copies? Why, why, why? And if we’re not asking why, we’re asking, “what does it all mean?” What am I supposed to learn from this? How am I supposed to react?

The “why” question is important. It’s maddening during times of stress yet mandatory for human progress. Our need to understand how and why things work has allowed us to invent and innovate. Understanding human motivation sets precedent for societal order and offers behavioral predictability. If we can collectively understand why a sick asshole decides to walk in and shoot up a school one day out of the blue, maybe we can address the root issue and prevent others from committing the same act. A rash of teen suicides stemming from bullying in schools mean that we can make bullying a priority and hopefully keep kids from taking their own lives.

The messed up part is that kids, however many, had to die in order for the issue to be noticed, at least as part of the national conversation.

So what about me? What about my questions? What is my role in all of this madness? Is it to simply participate as a member of the race and do my little part toward the crafting of a better widget? Contribute to human progress by punching in and paying the bills? I can’t answer for the rest of my fellow human beings, but after years of thoughtful contemplation on the subject, I’ve drawn a conclusion that offers me peace instead of madness when I inevitably ask why.

My logic is predicated upon the basic principal that I believe I come from a creator – God, higher power, etc. Whatever the name, I know in my heart that I come from somewhere.  I believe that a divine spark of my creator lives inside all of me and that spark is my connection back to our source. It’s what gives me the inherent knowledge between right and wrong. It’s what makes me feel bad when I hurt someone’s feelings and happy to help and old lady carry her groceries. It’s the essence of my soul or chi or energy center. It’s why people are drawn to me when it shines and repelled when I’m disconnected from it.

I believe that our universe, world, and lives are all part of a divine plan. The energy and elements of this plan are in constant motion and existence happens in some form or another for eternity. I accept that in my current state of being I have limitations. I accept that there are things I’ll not understand in this lifetime. I also believe that those things I can’t yet understand will be understood when I continue my existence at the end of this one.

I believe these things because I choose to believe them. I, along with every other human on the planet, have been given free will. I get to choose what I want to believe and given the choice to believe in God or believe in nothing, I choose God. In doing so, I trust that my life is moving along a divine path that was designed just for me. I’m learning the lessons I need to learn. I’m participating in teaching others (sometimes unknowingly) as they travel their path. I evolve and move forward toward my next stage of existence, much like graduating high school and moving on to college. This trust that I’m moving exactly the way I should is called faith. Faith is knowing not hoping.

Practical application of this belief system has allowed me to endure in the face of tragedy and more often than not, discover tragedy’s underlying beauty.

If each of us is a thread in the cosmic tapestry, woven beautifully along the path that was designed for us, then we become an integral part of the whole. Along the path, we intersect and run in parallel to thousands of other threads who are woven along their path. Our hue of green set against their section of grey form a necessary shadow in this glorious cosmic work of art.

It means that my dad learned what he needed to learn and contributed what he needed to contribute. His early departure at age 54 is part of my learning and his void in my daughter’s life is part of her path to greater spiritual growth. It’s human to mourn and lament the loss of a loved one, or the loss of a job, or the loss of a pet. It’s divine to discover the beauty of that loss and what is gained and what grows as the result of it.

Dr. Wayne Dyer, a man in tune with all things divine, spoke to a group of people some years back about the triumph of the human spirit and when asked about coping with loss and the “why” of it all, he referenced his friend and spiritualist, Ram Daas.

A couple, Steve and Anita, had suffered the loss of their young daughter, Rachel and were grieving deeply as any parent who loses a child would. When they asked why God would take her from them, Ram Daas composed the following letter:

“Dear Steve and Anita,

Rachel finished her work on earth, and left the stage in a manner that

leaves those of us left behind with a cry of agony in our hearts, as the

fragile thread of our faith is dealt with so violently. Is anyone strong

enough to stay conscious through such teaching as you are receiving?

Probably very few. And even they would only have a whisper of equanimity and

peace amidst the screaming trumpets of their rage, grief, horror and

desolation.

I can't assuage your pain with any words, nor should I. For your pain is

Rachel's legacy to you. Not that she or I would inflict such pain by choice,

but there it is. And it must burn its purifying way to completion. For

something in you dies when you bear the unbearable, and it is only in that

dark night of the soul that you are prepared to see as God sees, and to love

as God loves.

Now is the time to let your grief find expression. No false strength.

Now is the time to sit quietly and speak to Rachel, and thank her for being

with you these few years, and encourage her to go on with whatever her work

is, knowing that you will grow in compassion and wisdom from this experience.

In my heart, I know that you and she will meet again and again, and

recognize the many ways in which you have known each other. And when you

meet you will know, in a flash, what now it is not given to you to know: Why

this had to be the way it was.

Our rational minds can never understand what has happened, but our hearts

– if we can keep them open to God – will find their own intuitive way.

Rachel came through you to do her work on earth, which includes her manner of

death. Now her soul is free, and the love that you can share with her is

invulnerable to the winds of changing time and space. In that deep love,

include me.

In love,

Ram Dass”

 

In the wake of a tragedy like Sandy Hook and the Boston Marathon when I invariably ask why, I look to my faith and trust that all of those who perished did so of their divine will in an effort to better the whole of our race. I read the letter from Ram Daas to Anita and Steve and remind myself that the answers will come, but until they do, I carry on. I weep for the grieving families and pray that they find whatever small comfort they can in the idea that, as horrific as their loss may seem, it’s for a purpose and it’s not forever.

So why am I here again? I’m here to experience life and walk the path that’s been drawn for me. I’m here to love, laugh, inspire, overcome, teach, and learn. And as long as I look inward to that spark of the divine that dwells within, I have faith that my existence has purpose and meaning.

I no longer need to ask why. Now I ask how. How can I better serve, love, inspire, and even entertain. I wish each of you a divine life devoid of “whys” and filled with “hows.”