It Don't Mean a Thing If..., by Wil Hough
Imagine being paid to do something you love doing: something you, and I, cannot help doing for free. The pen-ultimate, of course, would be becoming a successful novelist. Wouldn’t that be incredible? Reality tends to fall far short of that novelist fantasy. However, “work done for pay” is still a possibility for those who work hard at honing their skills, the most important of which has nothing to do with penmanship, grammar, or the development of dynamic characterizations. Once again, I thank dear old departed Ms. Basenbach for pounding that most important of lessons into my thick cranium.
Way, way back in English IV-W at old Maine West High School, the previous Friday had been the deadline for handing in a composition on—whatever. Who knows, who cares? Much as many other issues that seemed so important at the time, it no longer matters what it was or why it was late. What does matter, even unto this very day, is the lesson I learned when I attempted to hand it in to the evil Ms. Basenbach on the ensuing Monday.
“Keep it Hauck; I do not accept late material!”
“But—it’s only a day late—” I stammered in shock. Then, discounting the weekend as a mere speed-bump, I affected my best blue-eyed school-boy-lawyer appeal. “Actually, it’s not technically late since class hasn’t yet begun.” Even as her dark stare turned my blood cold, I continued. “And—and—it’s so much better now than it would have been had I…” My voice, like my hopes melted away. Oh well, it’s just one assignment, I thought—also in vain.
“Actually, Hauck, it’s three days late, considering I did all the grading over the weekend while you were out exercising your overactive hormones,” she tossed back at me. She was always commenting on our teenaged hormonal flow and how we all mistook it for love. “However, it wouldn’t have matter if it was but one nanosecond tardy.
Then, to my ultimate horror, she turned to the class and stated in a gallows voice, “Let this be a lesson to you. When you finally leave this womb, you will find the world cares nothing for excuses. The best work is worthless if it doesn’t meet the deadline. Conversely, mediocre work is acceptable as long as it does. I am sure our Mr. Hauck here spent his entire weekend polishing up his essay so that it would meet with his exceptionally high standards.” At that, the entire class snickered at me. “However, in so doing, he missed his deadline. So, as a result, I am firing him.”
Then, with an overly cheerful tone, she lowered the boom. “You have earned an ‘F’ for the entire quarter. Let this be a lesson. It will go much harder for you later on if you do not. Now,” she said in dismissal, “go take your seat.”
To say I was upset would have been a major understatement. I was pissed—big time. And for once my fellow students were sympathetic, though it was probably the implied threat to their own grades that made them so. “Wow, that really sucks, Wil—flunked for the entire quarter just for being a little bit late. She should have at least given you credit for handing it in.” And so on and so forth. However, the point had been made.
For the rest of the semester, I pounded out my best work and handed it in early, just to be sure. When the two quarters were averaged out, I had earned a “C.” All that work just to neutralize my first quarter mess-up. That was when she showed what she was really made of and became my most influential teacher of all.
“Class,” she announced, “Mr. Hauck has averaged a ‘C’ for the semester. Do you realize what that means? It means that instead of taking a bad attitude, he applied himself to proving what he’s capable of. As a result, I am upgrading him to a ‘B.’”
The grade no longer matters. All that remains with me are her words—paraphrased: “It don’t mean a thing if it don’t meet that deadline.”
That lesson has stood me well through life. I no longer waste time fretting over details but just pound out a product as fast as possible and, afterwards, edit in leisure, with whatever time might be left. As I have learned, ninety percent of success is just showing up on time. The other ten percent seems to take care of itself.
Senior Editor Wil Hough earns his living as a practical artist and painting contractor in the Chicago area while dedicating his free time to his first love: making The Rose & Thorn Literary Ezine the best it can be. Oh, and when he cannot sleep, he writes a little.
Testimony out there, brother!
If you have ever thought to yourself "I could write/sing/make better than that..." when you are offended by the mediocrity you read/hear/see, remember that: mediocrity gets attention because it bothered to show up on time. If you want better, do better, and do it on time.
Now, if you'll pardon me, I need to go write something...deadlines, you know...
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