The Bucket List or The Grab Bag?

I first heard of the now famous "bucket list" reading an interview with former football coach Lou Holtz. He's now a college football TV commentator, but when he was at Notre Dame he had 50 things he was checking off before he, well, circled the drain. He'd just notched the "skydiving" box when he was asked about it. Since then the bucket theme has become a hit movie and a new lifestyle goal for many.

Bless those who have such a list - go for it. The concept just doesn't work for me because I'd have to focus on myself too much to check off the targets. I'm a veteran of putting myself first on a sort of unscripted pleasure list up until some 25 years ago. I'm also competitive, so if I have a set of goals I'd likely give them priority at times when I really should set aside my own recreation.

Somewhere along the line, I had an epiphany that I was not the most important person on the planet. To conjure up a list of exotic places like the Amazon River or the thrill in an underwater cage near great white sharks would have to push family, friends and associates off the front burner of my one-burner stove.

Among the gifts I treasure most are the family members, loved ones and associates who have graced my life over the years. There are too many to catalog, but they'd provide a list of folks I'd like to once again visit.  Still, I'd rather not make a list, but simply enjoy them as our lives happen to mesh.

It's not that I don't have dreams or an imagination to come up with a bucket. By keeping myself open to whatever comes my way and trying to have a positive attitude with whatever does arrive, I am given a thrill of the unexpected - actions or incidents that may have been dreamed of, but not planned.  That's what hit me a few years ago atop the Great Wall of China.


If I'd had a wish list, the Wall would have been on it, but standing there, looking at this magnificent, historical icon, I remembered imagining it back in grade school. Suddenly, I was a child again and I raced along the top of the wall as it wound into low-hanging clouds, imagining how goats hauled the heavy bricks and where the Mongol hordes might have tried to breach it. I had out-distanced the tourists and - winded and sweating like a farm animal - Chinese students had me pose for pictures with their friends. I'll assume they were laughing with me, but I was aware of the derogatory term they use for us and here I was, a "greasy ghost" very much out of place. It didn't matter, I was there.

Had this visit been on a long-standing list, I don't think it would have had the unexpected magic.  I get this same surprise emotion standing on a mountain top or at the base of a majestic waterfall, but all things meaningful do not have to be thrilling. By letting life's highlights come to me, my memory and heart are often touched with pleasantries. Laughing with grandchildren, intimate discussions with grown children, hiking with close friends and reaching out to help someone through an issue are undrawn boxes I'd never bother to check off.

Though of course happy times are preferred, not all my highlights need to be cheerful. Holding someone's hand as they die is as significant an event as I could experience.  So is an arm around the shoulder of a grieving loved one. Such gut-wrenching times will broaden my understanding and enrich my life, but would never be on anyone's bucket list.

If I create a list, I am setting myself up for disappointment.  Instead, I try to be receptive when a seemingly incidental occurance crosses my path. It has been a son on a stage, a granddaughter's vocal solo and the twinkle in a ninety-year old's eye that stirs me.  And it's not always people.  A hummingbird's bath in our backyard fountain, the scent of a tiger lilly and the electricity of a thunderstorm will unexpectedly brighten a moment in my life. 

The bucket list concept doesn't work for me, but another image does. When I reach into the people, places and things around me, I never know exactly what I'll pull out.  I envision life as more of a grab bag.

A Writer's Dream World

For years I've wondered about those writer's conferences held around the country. After attending the well-known Willamette conference in Portland recently I have a better understanding.

Perhaps it is the familiar journalist's suspicion that gave me pause beforehand. Politicians and personalities always had something to sell a newspaper person and it can be difficult to cut through the fluff. There's a growing cottage industry that feeds on writers like me - anxious to get published and willing to invest time and money to support our egos.

Most of us feel we a have life of interest to the world - usually in an autobiography. I once worked for Michael Gartner, a brilliant Iowan, former president of NBC News and Pulitzer Prize editorial writer. He said he could write a solid page of newspaper copy and I'd read every word: "The story of Denny Waller." He didn't write it, but I take a shot with a childhood memoir ("Walkin' Joe and The Midnight Marauders").

The question for would-be writers boils down to this: is this conference - or editorial service, consultation or how-to book - worth it?  Hundreds were drawn to the Portland gathering because of its good reputation. Besides educational opportunities from a series of lectures and workshops, the real goal for attendees is to get the attention of a legitimate agent for your play, movie script, novel or memoir. Writers sign up and pay for a limited number of interviews with registered agents.

There are two options to meet such a person.  You can make your pitch to a single agent in a ten-minute speech or join four or five other writers at a table, taking turns giving a two or three minute pitch to one agent. The problem with this is that a very talented writer might get wound tight over such a timed presentation and make a bad impression. All the writers I talked to were worried about the consultations - even though agents insist they look for content rather than personality. My feeling is that it helps to have both.

It is said that writing something is much easier than selling it. Today, self-publishing is easy with print-on-demand (POD) facilities, but it is not cheap. That's how I published my memoir. Still, I'd prefer to work with an agent who can push it into a wider market, hoping the message might have universal appeal. 

At Willamette I had consultations with five agents who review memoirs and now, like others, I twist in the wind to see if a professional actually reads and likes it. Although working with an agent would be exciting, my life does not hang in the balance, nor do I need a best-seller to be comfortable. Still, the challenge is dangling out there. I'm just not going to melt the charge card to build my ego. Oprah could do that for me...