Talking It Into Existence

I dream out loud constantly. See something I want and just announce it to whoever's listening. Not because I think saying it makes it real. Because once I've said it, I'm stuck with it.

That's what happened one night in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago, 1989 — Scott Kell and some girls, Harleys rumbling past, me announcing I'd own one. Kell didn't even pause. Just looked at me sideways with that flat Kell face and said I was full of shit. No malice. Just total disbelief that I was standing on a sidewalk on Belmont making promises to strangers about a motorcycle I couldn't afford.

He was right to call it. At that moment, it was just talk. But that was the point. Now Kell had heard it. Now the girls had heard it. Even a couple of random people walking down the street heard it. Now backing off meant admitting I was exactly as full of shit as he said.

So my brain went to work. Not because I willed it. Because I'd backed myself into a corner and the only way out was through. Five years later I owned not one but two Harleys.

I've done this my whole life. Not vision-boarding. Not manifesting. Just running my mouth in front of people who'd remember, and then having to deliver because the alternative is being the guy who's all talk.

But here's the thing — it only worked because Kell called bullshit. That was the part that mattered. He didn't nod along and say "that's awesome, man." He checked the talk against what he knew about my actual life, and the math didn't add up, and he said so. That's what created the corner I had to fight my way out of.

I miss that. I miss being around people who would test what you said against what you actually did. It wasn't always pretty. It was rougher than anything that would pass for supportive now, probably unfair sometimes, and nobody was thinking about your feelings when they did it. But it kept you honest. You couldn't float around on your own talk because someone in the room would ground you fast.

That doesn't happen much anymore, at least not in my life. Somebody says they're going to start a business, write a book, get in shape, move abroad — and the room just nods. "You got this." "So exciting." Nobody risks the tension of saying "no you won't." Saying "you got this" costs nothing. Calling bullshit risks a friendship.

I'm not talking about being cruel. Kell wasn't cruel. He just knew me well enough to not let me sound impressive for free. The people who push you like that are worth more than the ones who just clap. The clapping feels better in the moment, but it doesn't make you do anything.

I think about this a lot lately. I've got a few things I'm working toward that are big enough to scare me, and what I need is less applause and more people who'll look at me sideways and say "sure you will."

So I'm saying things out loud. I'm writing them down. I'm making sure the right people hear them — the ones who won't let me off the hook.

And if you think I'm full of shit, go ahead and say so. You'd be doing me a favor.