“For My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business” by Seymour Krim

This essay amazingly expressed the whole struggle that I have been going through the past few years. “The fact that all of this is private doesn’t make it any less real,” sums up my feelings exactly. I realized ( and I realize now that this journal entry may become somewhat of an essay ) that I had been professionally promiscuous, that I have been flirting with one too many jobs, and that I have not been faithful to one single dream and professional aspiration. Perhaps this is somewhat of a criticism of what Krim wrote. I appreciate its tone and friendliness. I perhaps couldn’t have approached it or related to it in the same way had it not been for the title and idea of the essay being “brothers and sisters,” a kind of family attitude. Although I don’t agree with the justification and revelry in such professional promiscuity, personally speaking. I would say that it would be better to become faithful, and thus useful, in one area of expertise; but to prevent myself from getting any more polemical, I digress (but perhaps he would agree with me, seeing that he said, “Granted that in a way it was the most rank kind of selfishness and self-absorption”). I realize that the idea at large in this piece is a social commentary of sorts. He manages to bring in a discussion of literary criticism into the mix, mentioning the American Dream trope, and using Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” as an explanation of this, and when I say this I mean to say that hopeless dream to become everything at once, and by so doing I become nothing at all. One sentence I found particularly captivating and explanatory in regards to this illusion was this one: “. . . of those who once saw you robed in the glow of your vision and now only seen an unmade bed and a few unwashed cups on the bare wooden table of a gray day.” I feel like I have to, and have, stood before many people wrapped in that glowing robe of vision as I explain and justify my reasons for studying creative writing; but the more I do that the closer I am to an unmade bed and unwashed cups. Wo, is me and every other human on this planet who also are groaning within themselves at the gravity of quotidian life, but what are these woes compared to the daily minutiae of joy.