I was driving around with my ego and my inner critic arguing in the back seat like two children in the final hour of the long drive to grandma’s house. The usual topics came up; when are you going to write something new, when are you going to write something good, and my favorite, when is the world going to finally notice you write at all. Worse than bad reviews, the silence of every critic I’ve sent my work to drives me batty. And then a funny little scenario popped into my head.
A bag of pennies on their way to the bank vault start a conversation. An old Wheat Penny begins by claiming that he’s actually worth more than a penny because he’s rarer and a collector’s item. Another penny screams that she used to be somebody’s lucky penny they’d found in an alley. She’d spent the past ten years in that person’s pocket bringing them luck until she’d been spent to buy a lucky winning lottery ticket just yesterday. Soon dozens more clamored for a moment to tell their tale of their inflated value in the hands of someone else.
And then I imagined all the new pennies they lay next to and how they dreamed of the day they’d experience a specialness capable of elevating them amongst their copper peers.
So I’m this penny; older than some but not rare, luckier than some but no magic charm. And despite my ordinariness I still dream of being more to the world than a copper coin which buys nothing anymore without at least a couple more to go with it.
And if you’re wondering; the lucky lottery ticket set the person for life and they lived in the mountains in a cabin and wrote wonderfully the rest of their days. Even my imagination dreams.
I wrote the above article two months ago, amidst a period of depression. Reading it recently I realized a fault in my logic; seeking my value in the eyes of others.