Louis Rhead: I diverted myself with talking to my parrot (1900)

— Illustration from 1900 William Taylor edition of The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner: Who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the Coast of America, near the Mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque; Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself. With An Account how he was at last as strangely deliver'd by Pyrates. Written by Himself. (Popularly known as Robinson Crusoe.)

" … accepting that I'm finally in charge of FollowingMyself."

Beyond a certain uncertain point, I find I have to lead myself. The trailblazers and popularizers I once looked to for direction have either left the building or proven themselves incapable of further advising me, so divergent have our paths and aspirations become. What early in my careers became an identity struggle has laid down its weapons. My identity is finally no longer a mystery to me. Neither are my fallacies. I more deeply understand my underlying absurdities as well as my fundamental decencies. I remain incomplete yet almost complacent, satisfied having life come at me, finally understanding and accepting that I never really had any alternative. I have arrived.

Where I've arrived might not matter. I have successfully surrounded myself with my habits, rituals, and foibles, and I fancy that I can see the center of the universe from my writing desk, and gravity seems to finally work properly there. I no longer hope to become something different someday. I hope for similar things instead, understanding that I'm now at an age where one misplaced step could change my mobility forever. I am not quite as cavillier as I used to be. I still aspire. As of this writing, I am anticipating receiving a copyedited manuscript for my pre-publication review. I cannot say that I'm thrilled out of my gourd at the prospect of seeing myself in print again, but I admit to a certain satisfaction at the recognition, even if the project seems more like an experiment than a fruition. I am a writer after all, and writers occasionally publish.

I currently hold no role model for myself. Back when I was building my careers, I maintained models of those whose work I particularly admired. I rode their coattails without precisely plagiarizing. I'd adopt their perspectives and perceive my world through those angles. I'd learn some things and then move on, shedding each perspective in turn. I never became an accolade. I followed at what seemed safe distances. Still, I was not entirely leading myself. I relied upon their insights to inspire, if not precisely guide, my forward footsteps. I felt reassured that I was not the only one holding some curious perspective. I was only trying to belong in a world that often seemed stand-offish if not outright hostile. I quoted others more than I probably should have. I'm confident that I misunderstood much of what I believed I'd mastered through fevered reading and improvisation.

I never felt completely comfortable in my own professional skin. There was always someone else who'd experienced something greater. Every keynote speaker seemed to have personally guided a multi-national project team numbering in the thousands to successfully implement the first revolutionary switching system ever produced. I learned later that these superheroes were the most impressed in the audience, and that nobody, and I really mean nobody, had ever actually personally led any such team to accomplish anything. That speaker embodied a misrepresentation of what leaders and managers do. They always, always, always get to guide themself first. Everything else follows. Of course, all those multinational team members get to guide themselves, too, however otherwise charismatic their designated leader might seem. They each belonged to a largely unacknowledged community that was leading itself and, perhaps most importantly, following itself as well.

Those who sacrifice their place in the performance in favor of another's presence, those who favor following others over following themself, hobble the show. I know, it's popular to follow those exceptional leaders who seem to know what to do next, even when they don't, and especially when they don't. I ultimately learned to skeptically follow whenever I was encouraged to follow, to never surrender my own proven poor judgment for any promise of another's better judgment, if only because that judgment ultimately could have never existed. Take whomever you choose to be your personal lord and shopper, but know that you retain ownership of whatever they might decide for you. Your acceptance defines who owns the result. The supposed genius whom I might have temporarily put in charge of my judgment never owned the result.

It was never different. Even when I became enthralled with some genius's perspective, it was always me making those choices. So I shouldn't consider this instance to be terribly different than how it's always been for me, except this iteration seems different. I've lost the training wheels, and even though it seems I haven't relied upon them for years, certain fears emerge as I stoop to finally remove them. I feel as though I'm flying solo for the first time, even though I've been flying solo for years. Habits of decades influenced me in ways I couldn't have possibly been aware of. Now I'm deliberately and publicly cutting the cord. My training and experience pass into information instead of definition. To whom I once felt associated might not matter anymore. I honor the place they held in my identity while acknowledging that I'm more like Robinson Crusoe now. If not precisely stranded on some desert island, I'm working now on accepting that I'm finally in charge of FollowingMyself.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz