Jeff Morr is the Chief Executive Officer of Majestic Properties. Before I knew anything about Alessandro Ferretti's Artécity - for instance, that Majestic Properties is the broker representing Mr. Ferretti on that property - I was recommended to him by an artist who said Mr. Morr was a sponsor of Art Basel Miami 2004 and was a benefactor of young struggling artists. 

I wished out loud in view of the untold millions of dollars being spent by "deep-pocketed" people on art and real estate during the international art show in "world-class Miami, that there were more patrons and sponsors of struggling authors both young and old, literary artists who could really use a helping hand. He recommended that I approach Mr. Morr on the subject; I took his recommendation to heart and sent him my Artémajestic letter.

He did not reply, and I thought nothing more of it, not until Dindy Yokel copied me on an email she had apparently sent to Matthew Haggman, a reporter at the Miami Herald, implying that I was a crazy bum who had "asked Jeff Morr for money."

As anyone can see from my letter to Mr. Morr, I might be crazy. I don't think that I am, but they say that is a sure sign of insanity, and that creative artists are usually nuts, but add that mad artists are those who do something useful with their madness instead of completely cracking up. 

Actually, the aspersion intended by Mr. Ferretti's publicist is ironic. For Majestic Properties is, after all, in the business of asking people for money, as is every other bloke who must close sales to make a living. No doubt Mr. Ferretti and Ms. Yokel have no compunctions about asking people for money.

And anyone can see that I did not ask Mr. Morr for money in the sense implied by Mr. Ferretti's publicist. Panhandling at the highest levels is called respectfully called "marketing". Of course at that level people usually something to give in return, as do I.  Even so, the bottom-line objective of business is to buy cheap and sell dear, to get as much as you can for nothing, as is sometimes justified by reference to the invisible hand of the god who got everything for nothing.

There is a surplus, and those who have the greatest surpluses have due cause to be horrified by bums who ask for money, for they reflect the essential condition of human beings, that at bottom they are all dependent on one another to a certain extent, hence are bums at the bottom of being and nothingness. Even worse for wealthy persons who have little to give, many of those bums prefer a hand up to a hand out, and they very much deserve one, for they could and would, after a brief training period, do as good if not better a job for $10 an hour that some people do for $100,000 or even $ 1,000,000 a year.

December 23, 2004

Dear Santa, My email letter to you was returned. Since Christmas is coming up this week, I am posting my letter on the Internet in hopes it might get to you indirectly. David

Dear Santa,

I am a little embarassed writing this letter to you. Lots of people need presents more than I do. And I am probably the only person my age who still believes that you actually deliver presents on demand provided the letter is written rightly, notwithstanding bad grammar.

At least I believe in you more than I believe in the most powerful men in Miami's real estate business, whom I have asked for the same thing, offering them my services in exchange, of course. For I am not a bum, not since I stopped praying for myself long ago. Prayers from other people have been piling up on my account for some time now - I don't know when they will be converted into cash.

Santa, more to the point, I need access to a computer and printer and a few stamps so I can edit my manuscripts and submit my books to major publishers. I haven't tried that angle before, and I want to see if taking my piggies to market will do me any good, especially now that begging for jobs in Maimi has done me no good at all despite my good record and references.

"We are looking for someone with less experience," I was pointedly told last week. That painfully reminded me that I am in that accursed state of limbo, of being too young to collect Social Security, which the president would eliminate if he could, and too old to get a decent job, because the young want to get rid of costly older employees whose future is shorter and dimmer than theirs.

Of course I might qualify for homelessness even though I don't drink, smoke, do drugs, or scare nice people on the street with incoherent or violent behavior. But I would rather drown myself on South Beach than be homeless, and you would too if you saw what is going on in Miami between the filthy rich and filthy poor.

The least I can do is take my piggies to market. That's where you come in, Santa, if you can. I only received one response from the big real estate businessmen - I figured they had plenty of space and therefore might have a little corner in an office somewhere with a computer and printer in it. The CEO of a prominent Florida real estate brokerage firm responded indirectly. Apparently he or his secretary had a publicist for one of his clients go around telling people that I had asked him for money, as if I were a bum, the sort of person they despise the most. Santa, that is not true! See for yourself:

Even if I were some sort of mooch, I suppose that wouldn't matter to you at all, for I imagine that almost everyone who writes to you might want something for nothing. And there's nothing wrong with that, seeing as how we get life for nothing, and without even asking for it!

After all, this holiday is the only day of the year allegedly devoted to giving people things without good and valuable consideration in return. Therefore I promise that I will not pay you back, Santa, at least not directly. But I believe publishers will accept my books and that many people will enjoy reading them. Some of them will be given away as Christmas presents, and that should save you some time to make up for this long letter of mine.

Happy Holidays!

David Arthur Walters

P.S. If you decide against my request, will you please give some presents to the poor kids in Cuba? President Grinch is trying to steal Christmas from Cuban families so they can be free.

Mr. Jeff Morr
Majestic Properties
Miami, Florida

December 6, 2004

Dear Mr. Morr:

An artist whom I had coffee with at the Art Basel exhibition on Miami Beach suggested that I contact you. We were discussing Miami's art benefactors when your name among others came up. I had said that I wished the literary field had such wonderful benefactors as yourself, because I, a brilliant author, am in dire need, not of a hand out, but of a lucky break.

I have built up a huge inventory over the last few years.  I have neglected to take any of my piggies to the market, hence I find myself in such dire straits that I do not have access to the means to compile and submit my work to legit publishing houses: that is, I do not have sufficient access to a computer and the Internet - where all my inventory is stored - and a copier.  I do not have the budget to rent the equipment and access for two months; this message is costing me about $6 at a downtown facility.

Since I am a presentable and personable person with office skills and excellent references in real estate and related businesses, I am thinking that perhaps you might be in a position to advance me a corner of an office somewhere in or near downtown Miami that  I might have the access I need. I am of course willing to trade any services of mine that might add value to your organization.

In case you are wondering how a presentable and personable person not to mention a brilliant author got himself into my situation, how yours truly wound up in dire need of a lucky break, here is my explanation:

I knew that I was avoiding my fate a few years back, that I was not doing what I was cut out to do, therefore I resigned from the best job I had ever had, and plunged my life savings into the realization of this command:

Be one of the greatest authors the world will ever or never know

I did not say writer: I said author. There is a big difference between the two as far as I'm concerned: the writer is a craftsman, perhaps a master craftsman, while the author is an artist, perchance a creative genius. Of course one may become the other, or the two may happily meet in one person. 

I inserted the "or" in my command because Success in this world can be a real bitch no matter what one does. With that "or", my life might end blamelessly, with either success or  failure. Either one of two essays would then suit the occasion: How to Succeed, or, How to Fail. Both might be put to good use by aspiring writers who want both sides of the story. No doubt Perfectionists would argue that, since no author is perfect, every success constitutes a failure; wherefore history, no matter how it is written, is always a mistake. But never mind, for it behooves us to stick with Either/Or in order to get something done.

As for worldly success, I followed the good advice I received. At least everybody said it was good advice in those days. First of all, they said, be yourself and do what you were cut out to do. That is, do what you love to do most of all, follow your core passion.

I had always fancied myself as a great author. I wrote a cool story in the second grade, about me saving the world. I scrawled out quite a bit between marriages and jobs, but wrote nothing of great note. I was not fully committed to the Work yet; my hand was not set firmly and consistently to the task. After all, there are many ways for a dreamer to avoid reality in between marriages and jobs. Nonetheless, quite a few of my little articles were published in the local papers. More than one substantial person said:

"Never stop writing."

Not only did I stop writing, I stopped reading everything except financial statements and reports. Nor did I watch television or listen to the radio, hence I knew little about what was going on in the world. "Why do the black people look so mad today?" I asked. "Didn't you see the papers? Because the Italian gang beat one of them to death with baseball bats last night." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

What did I do instead of write? I worked and saved. I danced modern, ballet, jazz, and Afro. I acted Method, and I sang Legit and the Blues. I quit smoking everything and I drank lots of Bass Ale to make up for it - I eventually kissed the ale goodbye too. That's about it, until 1997, when I quit my job, turned down an even better job, sold my stocks at 5% of what they would be in two years, and fled to paradise to pursue the real love of my life.

"Never stop writing."

I wrote and wrote and wrote, I wrote so much that my worst critic called me "an infernal writing machine." I don't know how much inventory I have saved up, but I think it is quite a lot. When I was not writing, I was in the library stacks, sitting on the cold, tile floors in the aisles, studying, studying, studying, for years. After all, I was determined to be more than a writer, more than a craftsman who can succeed with superficial thinking and writing. Again, I was to be an author. Wherefore I needed to figure things out, deepen my thinking, study the greatest literature ever written, absorb the thoughts of geniuses, and so on. That is what I had literally dreamed of doing one night; the dream included a voice that said, "This is what you must do." I showed up as instructed the next day - at the Hamilton Library in Honolulu.

Sometimes I resorted to magic; I stood in my favorite sections of the library and intuited the contents all at once. Eventually, things started coming to me, out of the deep so to speak. The voices of the masters silently spoke. I was haunted. I was beside myself. I was I and not-I at once. Writing became an interpretive meditation and an addiction. I had been a dancer for several years, in fine shape: and now I was wasting away physically. I no longer "lived here." That 'here', Hawaii, was an earthly paradise that I barely noticed.

Never stop writing, indeed! Writer's block was unknown to me. After all, what else was there to do at the time but write? Nothing, so I had to sit down and do it or go absolutely mad! And here is my beloved work, the product of my core passion and the advice I took from you and you and you, for what it's worth.

What? What credentials? Tear sheets? What tear sheets? The editor wants my credentials and tear sheets, he says, to prove that I can write well, to prove that I know something about my favorite subjects, before he will even read my work, let alone accept it for his publication. That is, the editor is not qualified to judge the quality and substance of my work. I don't understand.  My works are my credentials and tear sheets.

Before all, I was told, Be original! That was the easiest advice to follow, for I have always been a bit rebellious. As my father puts it, I have a "conflict with authority." Most of us do, and I would capitalize on mine since I have managed to survive authority somehow. Think outside of the box? Hell, I have never been in that box. No, I did not play the ropes, I did not mount the slippery rungs of the ladder to success: I just read some of the best thinkers in the world, wracked my brains for my own positions, and I wrote and wrote, I strove to become my own author and authority, my own man, something more people should do instead of relying on the authorities - believe me, their works should be subjected to a thorough investigation.

Another piece of good advice: If at first you do not succeed, try and try and try and try again ad infinitum. Now I have done very well at whatever I set out to do, even though the work I took up ran against the grain according to occupational preference inventories and the like.

"David does a great job as the company's accountant, but he's not an accountant," said the accountants. In fact, according to the tests, that was the last occupation I should have taken up, but I was hungry one day and the bookkeeping job was immediately available instead of a job as an author, professor, public relations director, interior decorator, hairdresser. I was very good at a lot of other things: dancing, singing, acting, playing instruments, making love and so on, not to mention a few business arts. But just as I was on the verge of completing something, I dropped it and went on to something else.

A ballet teacher once screamed at me: "David, you've got to finish things! Don't fly across the stage, then slump down as you get near the curtains, and slouch into the wings! The audience must believe that you are going somewhere, that your performance has a purpose. "

Yes, finish things. Good advice. Perhaps not the best advice for all aspiring writers and authors, however, given the odds against getting accepted by publishers. Finishing things can be a prescription to write oneself to death, to commit suicide by writing. According to the television show about cold cases, it might be a prescription to become a lonely serial killer living in a crummy room papered with rejection slips. But here I am. The ground is coming up fast, for I also took the advice to be courageous, to risk everything for what I love to do most, which is being and becoming myself as one of the greatest authors the world will ever or never know. To wit: I jumped without a parachute, and I need a lucky break, not a crushing blow, so we'll see.

An anecdote: One day I heard Luigi, the jazz-dance master, ask a dance student how he made his living. "Waiting on tables," said the young fellow. "Are you a dancer or a waiter?" Luigi asked. "Uh, a dancer," he replied shamefacedly. "Then dance, don't wait on tables. Dance! Get a job dancing!" exclaimed the master. The last I heard, the young man was studying to be a Jungian psychologist.

Ballet provides a different anecdote: a famous ballet master I know approached a persistent ballet student who believed she would become a professional ballerina. He walked her over to the window of the studio, pointed at the bus stop, and said, "You are not going to succeed at ballet. Take the bus home. Find something else to do." She left in tears.

Here is more good advice for those who aspire to succeed in any walk of life: Be generous with yourself. You must give first, then you will get. If you are generous, your generosity will be returned several fold - or at least with a ten-percent profit margin.

Given my incorrigible vanity, being generous with my work came easily for me. I went to considerable expense photocopying and mailing my brilliant pieces to friends, politicians, activists and editors. But I practically gave up on editors when the Internet was made available. Most publications did not accept online submissions, and one could always publish one's own work on open publishing sites - how convenient! Renting computer time is an expense I can hardly afford any more, but I still am quite generous with my work, posting it here and there. My rule, however, is to hold back 90% of my inventory for commercial use. Even so, one critic told me that I am giving myself away, wasting myself, pissing into infinity - he said that since my work is consistently good, that I should get off the Internet and do some marketing. 

Market? Grub for dollars? Who, me, one of the greatest authors the world will ever or never know?

Money isn't everything. Of course writers make money. Great authors must be independent, must they not? What they need is to be discovered, to be adopted by understanding patrons, publishers, editors. What they need is a break!  I am getting very lonely for dollars: I want to invite my leggy neighbor from France to dine with me at one of those sidewalk cafe's on Lincoln Mall - by means of a note under the door, she suggested that we do so, but I must beg off with a lie because I do not want to tell her I am presently married to Lady Poverty and simply cannot afford $50 for dinner.

No, of course not, money is not everything. The best things in life, like free lunches, are free. Thousands of people have read my work on the Internet since 1997. I even have fans. I enjoy the comments people make - I have learned to feel sorry for the nasty commentators too. But I would not mind getting my money back. All told, my investment in becoming one of the greatest authors the world will ever or never know is about $100,000. At the very least, I suppose I should receive $100,000 in return for being so generous with my money and self.

Thus far I have received $600. Perhaps the best is to come. I certainly hope so. Now it is too late to start all over again and do it right, play the ropes, climb the slippery slope to success. Just for beginners, I would be long dead before I saved up enough tuition to buy a degree.

I am in dire need of a lucky break.

 

 

Bon Fortuna,

 

David Arthur Walters

Nothing is Impossible