Self-reflection: Why ain't I better?

After 623 posts, it's a good question

One section of the bookstore you’ll never catch me is the self-help section. Which, come to think of it, may explain a lot.

I was sitting in my brand new den here in Thomasville, Georgia yesterday afternoon working on my Bruce Springsteen manuscript - just sorta getting it rolling - and I stole a look at my chock-full bookcase off to my right.

There’s roughly 90 books in the front at least, (all shelves are two-deep). On the top shelf is Bono’s “Surrender” and Greil Marcus’s collection on Bob Dylan and “Springsteen on Springsteen” among many others. What have they taught me, how have they shaped me and steered my words? I’d like to know, really. Could you ever measure something like that?

On the second shelf, there’s a 1980 Ring Record book (with autographs! The only place I ever collected them.) There’s Keith Richards’ “Life,” an amazing book written with a ghost writer who somehow magically captured what I - and the world - imagine is Keith’s voice. What a literary achievement by James Fox! Take a bow!

There’s also Peter Guralnick’s “Lost Highway” and his great two-part bio of Elvis - “Last Train To Memphis” and “Careless Love.” Now there was a writer who took music seriously, though he first described himself as a fan. He made you think about why these songs, these artists connected and why some didn’t. Actually got to meet him once. The most modest writer I ever met. I felt guilty not liking his recent book on Colonel Tom Parker, Elvis’s manager who bled him dry.

Right next to Peter’s stuff is Bob Dylan’s “Chronicles, Vol. 1” (still waiting for Volume 2). There were some critics who picked the book apart - “He stole this from Robert Louis Stevenson” and ridiculous stuff like that. So what? I stole that phrase from Mark Twain. Or was it Kurt Vonnegut? They’re words. They get used.

Hey, I thought, Bob Dylan wrote a damn book! Not the “Tarantula” mess but a real readable book. Not the stuff we wanted to read, maybe, but hell, it’s Bob, right? We should have known better. He gave us a book and he didn’t have to.

On the third shelf, there’s Jimmy McDonough’s wonderful “Shakey” on the life of Neil Young, which I found an invaluable resource in writing my own Neil Young book, due sometime later this year (I hope. As a writer, you never know.) Even shared a few emails with the guy. McDonough challenged Neil, got up in his grill at times. You don’t see writers do that very often. How often have I done that? Hmmm.

There’s Marcus’s “Invisible Republic” on Dylan’s Basement Tapes, which, along with “Mystery Train,” are two books on music that take you somewhere you would never have gone. His closing piece on Elvis in “Mystery Train” called “Presliad” is simply the best music writing I’ve read.

You also might notice Warren Zanes’s “Deliver Me From Nowhere,” the inspiration for the powerful recent film of the same name about Springsteen’s battle with depression after “The River” tour and at the same time, the creation of his “Nebraska” album. Who would have thought at 75, it was time for Bruce to share all this? (Great movie!)

There’s also Bill Flanagan’s fabulous “U2 At The End Of The World” about their Zoo TV tour - a very underrated, inside look at a great band that knew Flanagan and trusted him. I remember a great line where Bono asked Flanagan when he quoted him to not make it sound like he’s standing up on a table brandishing a saber.

I see Mehr’s extraordinarily researched, brutally frank book on The Replacements and how, almost against their will, they lifted themselves out of a world of alcoholism, abuse and trouble, at least for a while with some marvelous records. Mehr went deep, way deep. That took guts.

Looking at all this that I’ve read, all these records I’ve listened to, it hit me. Why ain’t I better?

Take a look at the diverse collection on these bookcases. Where'd I go wrong?

I admit, I’m not exactly sure what I mean by “better.” I’ve written a bunch of books, none even remotely close to the best-seller list but as good, I think, as I could write ‘em. I certainly haven’t done what Henry Thoreau did, going back through his published copy of “Walden” and making corrections in the margins.

What does it mean if this morning as I sit at my laptop with a Bruce Springsteen bootleg playing in the background, if now, I’m as good as I’m going to get? What if I’ve already reached whatever potential I had? The climb is over, it’s a matter of not falling from here.

My trusty Substack dashboard says so far today, I have 899 subscribers. I’m very grateful for every single one. Thank you, friends. It also says over the past year, my work has had 270,000 views. That’s cool, too. With all that, is it wrong to wonder if I’m not going to get any better? Have I peaked? How will I know?

I was thinking about all that when I turned to the bookshelf to my left. I see former world light heavyweight champion Jose Torres’ book on Muhammad Ali, a book that helped me really understand and get interested in boxing. At the other end, there are books by two renegades: Lester Bangs and Hunter Thompson, whom I intentionally put next to one another. I like to imagine the two of them having conversations during the night. Wish I could listen in.

Standing guard and probably keeping order on that shelf is Joseph Heller’s classic “Catch 22”. I got to meet and interview Heller some years ago. I’d read that he had to cut about 40% of the original “Catch 22” manuscript. At the time, I was writing columns that ran down the side of the newspaper’s front page so I had to have it down to the very sentence and constantly had to battle with editors. I asked him about the cuts. “It was just more and more of the narrative,” he said. “It didn’t hurt.” Hmm.

On shelf two, there’s a Twain bio, A.J. Liebling’s “The Sweet Science,” which is easily one of my favorite and most re-read books of all-time. There are some books on the great Ted Williams and Roger Angell on baseball. Nobody writes better than Angell, a former New Yorker editor.

One of the neat things ChatGPT threw my way recently was asking me if I wanted to see what writers the bot thought I was influenced by.

“Sure,” I typed.

“Roger Angell and A.J. Liebling,” it wrote back.

“Damn,” I thought. “Is ChatGPT sucking up?” That didn’t, of course, suggest for a moment I was in their class - the bot ain’t that dumb. But Angell’s precision, Liebling’s wonderful digressions and wordplay, maybe some of it rubbed off. I sure hope so. Liebling once said “I can write better than anyone who can write faster and faster than anyone who can write better.” Does writing slower somehow make it better?

My point is, I’ve read the best. The very best. Just as friends say I’m a music snob, I’m a reading snob, too. Hemingway, Twain, Joyce, Chekhov, Heller, Salinger…I can only assume that over the years, the reading and a dozen years of teaching high school kids has helped me, taught me, inspired me, challenged me.

Sure, I’m proud of my Substack output. There is a sense of accomplishment and even joy in writing each one, all 623 of them. I love hearing back from readers, too. As a writer, you’d like to think you’re on the rise but you can’t just go by the numbers, can you? Will getting to 900 make a difference?

A few weeks ago, I wrote about reconnecting with a lifelong friend in my post “Starting In Aisle Three,” that was one that hit my heart. Could I find a way to capture the essence of a genuine, lasting friendship, one that’s endured moves, life-changing issues for half a century? It was a struggle, a good one.

Once I finished, I was proud, happy, emotional. “This is as good as I can write,” I thought.

But was it? Can I get better? Is it wrong to think that way? So many people I’ve met over the years, especially at book signings, have told me they, too, wish they could write a book. Shouldn’t my collection of published work — not counting the millions of words I wrote during a 25-year newspaper career — lift my spirits, raise the bar, do the trick, make me proud, shut me up?

The answer I came up with yesterday is the same one I repeat now. No.

God help me. (And yes, I’ve asked.)

Here’s the Nogowski canon - so far. It should add Neil Young some time this year.