In the last week, two different people – one writer, one artist – were complaining to me at two different times about the Internet and the end of culture and literacy, writers are finished, books are dead, artists will perish blah-blah-blah (this always surprises me a bit, as the Internet, for all of its troubles, seems to spawn unimaginable quantities of stories, books, art and culture) and then both looked at me, and said, “but you are lucky.” One said I was lucky because I had found a niche, the other said I was lucky because I was focused.

This is always interesting to me. First because I never know what the life of anyone else is like, and it seems odd to assume such things without asking. How could they know? Secondly, I don’t agree. I am blessed with many good things, yet I don’t honestly believe that you can write 22 books or paint a thousand pictures or make 100 quilts out of luck. Luck is technically the force that seems to operate for good in a person’s life, as in shaping circumstances, events or opportunities. With my luck, my next book will be a bestseller.

But I don’t feel comfortable the label or the idea. I would never tell another writer or artist he or she were successful because they were lucky. Might get me slapped. Did Maria and I find one another of out luck? If you had been around at the time, you might not think that process was lucky, as wonderful as it turned out to be. Is it luck that makes a good book or sells it? Or takes a good photo. Or is it rushing outside and hauling bags around and crawling in the mud for hours? I took a great photo of the sunrise a few weeks ago and I have a 100 black fly bites to prove it.

When someone tells me I am lucky, what I hear them saying is “well, the only reason you are surviving is that some mysterious force other than you brought you good fortune.” And as many good things as I have in my life, I would not dream of detailing the pain and loss. My problem, not yours. I have traded a lot of things for my life, and paid in money and blood. My choice, not lady luck.

I love writing and I can proudly say that no one reading this blog has ever heard me complain about being a writer or the travails of publishing, e-books or the Internet. I am responsible for me, and I can’t even honestly blame my divorce,  the greedy publishers, the scumbags at the banks or the slimy villains in Washington. If I do well, it is because I have worked hard, taken risks, sought to change and grow. If I do not, is it bad luck to blame? The Internet? E-books. I am so blessed it stuns me. Yet I would not agree to the idea that I am still writing books because I am lucky. If I get the blame, I get the credit.

Someone told me that Maria is so lucky because we have a great marriage, and she loves animals,  makes good things and sells them. It is not the term I would use to describe her.  I can tell you from where I sit that I have never seen a human being work harder, be more focused and adaptive, worry and adjust more. Seeing her work day and night, every day and night, her fingers blistered and cracked from her sewing, her 3 a.m. sleep-shattering ideas bursting out of her consciousness,  I would not call her good work and life lucky. She has fought every hour of every day for her life, and she will never say so or pity herself. I hope I never do either. Fate is real, but I believe that we never know what is inside of anyone else’s life. I also believe that we make our own luck, every day of our lives, in every thought in our heads and action that we take.

I love being responsible for my own life. It took me a long time, and I’m not going to give it away to luck or anything or anyone else.