Creative work is hard. Really hard. It’s emotional. It’s revealing. It’s time-consuming. It’s draining. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a song, album, movie, article, painting, or book. Whatever it is, it took way longer to create than it did to consume. I have immense appreciation for anyone who has the guts to do creative work and deliver it to the world. Who am I to say it sucks? That’s why I don’t. Not publically, anyway. I certainly have my opinions and preferences—have a drink with me, and you’re sure to hear plenty about both. I just don’t find negative criticism to be particularly useful. You might love something I think sucks. I don’t want to ruin it for you. This is why I choose to not publically add to the already enormous amount of people ready and willing to tell you a book sucks. I trust your ability to form your own opinion on whatever you’re reading. So what do I do?…

The lights strobe around me. The music bounces off my ears, reverberates in my heart, and shakes my body. I watch bottle after bottle of champagne pour out of the back room. Each one accompanied by sparklers, signs, and whatever else is supposed to make me feel special in that moment. Confetti falls from the ceiling, and club-goers wonder what we could possibly be celebrating. It’s a scene of pure excess. Pure emotion, really.

I’m surrounded by friends, women I don’t know, and the unmistakable feelings of lust and excitement. It’s easy to get lost in the moment. Too easy. And on that thought, my hand raises to signal for another round or three. Or four. I can’t lie: it feels great every time. Or let me correct that. It feels great every time—in the moment. 

But something happens after the moment…

My knees aren’t wobbly yet, but this is about the time on any Saturday night when a glaze spreads over my eyes. Tonight, I’m more annoyed than entertained. I’m like a spinning top: where and when I’ll stop, I’m not really sure. I can’t spot one woman I’m interested in talking to. My ego keeps yelling at me, “No way, not good enough,” while my empathy reminds me, “You can’t do that. You know how that would end.” It’s sort of ridiculous when thought about out of context, but I trust my eyes, even if they are vodka-dipped.

An hour later, the top finally stumbles. “So sorry,” I say.

She looks up, smiling ear to ear. “It’s okay.” 

I ask, “Have I seen you here before?” 

“I don’t think so,” she says. 

“Well, hi, my name is Doug.” And just like that I’m spinning again….