Who Helps Themselves.


There are a million Self-Help books in the world. Maybe more. Who doesn’t need a little help from time to time, after all?

Believe me. Irrefutably. There is a book out there which will suggest a direct road to the way. Any which way.

But here is the thing. Anyone can write one. I can write one. However, I have to put the brakes on here. I am afraid, I wouldn’t be much help to any little body. As it is, each and every morning, I reach underneath my bed and I drag out this enormous satchel of collected items. Then I carry them everywhere I go. Some call it baggage. I call it the furniture of life.

Funny. It seems that in all other areas of my life, I am the Poster-Child for OCD. I keep everything neat, tidy, clean and uncluttered. (Except for when Mary decorates for ANY holiday. Then, I withstand a few weeks of grueling agony and torment. Even Santa has a Bobble-Head. But that is another story.)

Back to the self-help. The authors can be any Joe, on any street corner, looking to make a buck. And I have a theory about most of them. They appear to be extroverts on sugar buzzes.

Honest to the great god in the sky.

All the books point you in the direction of finding happiness. Joy. Bliss.

Truthfully, I came out of the womb crying. I think that set the tone from there on out.

I don’t necessarily want to be joyful.  Leaping about, tossing daisies in the air. Mostly, I want to be even. Simply okay. Just here, without huge worries or fears. For crying out loud, I certainly don’t want to drag around my big pillowcase filled with all that clunking-junk.

But those books don’t point us in the general direction of mediocrity. Or even slender affirmations. No, they want us to be exceedingly happy. And that’s where they lose me. Most days, I just don’t have it in me.

Yet, they tell you, with practice, anyone can find the joy in all aspects of life. With practice. Rinse and Repeat. Each day, follow the motions.

Despite all of that, practice nudges me the wrong way. It sure doesn’t make perfect. There really isn’t anything earthbound which is perfect. And I’ve disliked practicing anything since the fourth grade when I took up the saxophone. My family developed a lack of enthusiasm about practice at that point too.

Self Help. I just Googled “Self Help Books List” and, Heavens to Mergatroid, did I ever get a “List of Lists.” The Top 100. The Top 50. The Best 38 Ever Written. The Top 20 Self-Help Books of All Time.

I had burned out Orphan-Annie-Eyes by the time I got through with the lists, let alone, the actual books.

The longer this goes, the more I am edging toward a new opinion. I have not changed. But the circumstances surrounding all of this, sure have altered my view.

I think I am going to write a book after all.
“How to be an earnest and unexceptional introvert, and just be okay with it.”


“Wipe that silly grin off your face.”

Coming to your bookstores soon.


“You can find something truly important in an ordinary minute.”
― Mitch Albom, For One More Day


“Depending on the reality one must face, one may prefer to opt for illusion.”
― Judith Guest, Ordinary People


Happiness? That’s nothing more than health and a poor memory.
— Albert Schweitzer