What real promise is
I see these memes going around: “At age 30, JK Rowling was depressed and wanted to give up, but she didn’t and now she’s worth 15 kajillion dollars, so you shouldn’t give up either!”
And I just . . . think that’s bullshit. It’s not helpful. In fact, I think it’s discouraging. You’re more likely to get struck by lightning than to achieve the kind of success she achieved.
It doesn’t have to be her, it might be “you could be the next Stephen King!” Or “Atul Gawande!” Or whatever.
But you’re probably not, and we both know that.
It has been a hard, hard time for me lately, and a week or two ago, I drove to Death Valley to take a break from work and to think about things. And as I was driving down all the twisty, tiny roads you have to take to get there, I came upon a field of wildflowers growing in the desert. An exuberance of gold, if you will.
Then another field. And another, and for miles and miles, yellow and purple and pink and white, glorious and unexpected. The last time I went to Death Valley, I never saw so much as a thornbush.
And that was what I needed. Not a kajillion dollars or the promise of fame or even the hope that somehow it will all work out. Just. . . wildflowers in the springtime.