We tip wait staff, airport shuttle drivers, waxing specialists, and bartenders without even thinking about it. Delivery people, parking attendants, taxi drivers, and baristas. Some people say that they have even tipped cows – an activity that sounds callous and inhumane.
But you know what else is callous and inhumane? Not tipping your fellow Vocal writers.
I think we have all felt some modicum of dismay at our lowly Vocal earnings. When we first learn about Vocal – many of us through Facebook “Challenge” postings – we likely look like Scrooge McDuck with those greedy little $$$$ in our eyes. We get pumped up and start writing, just knowing that we have a good chance to win that big-paying challenge.
The year that the Seattle Seahawks won the Super Bowl, Russell Wilson said that he kept repeating a mantra that his father taught him: “Why not me? Why not us?”
"I remember my dad asking me one time, and it's something that has always stuck with me: 'Why not you, Russ?' You know, why not me? Why not me in the Super Bowl? So in speaking to our football team earlier in the year, I said, 'Why not us? Why can't we be there?'"
So, in the spirit of my own version of the Super Bowl of Vocal "Challenges” or “Creators We’re Loving” or “Top Stories”: “Why not me?
Why not me?
Who among us hasn’t dreamed of earning a living – heck, a healthy living – from our writing? I would suspect that most of us have fantasized of becoming published authors since we first learned to write. It’s no wonder we experience a falling feeling when we see that article that we just poured four days of our lives into only receive 3 reads. Yes, “3” reads.
1 (my husband) + 2 (my daughters) = 3
Heck, if my dog could read, she would count as 4. Such is the following that I have created on Vocal.
Not that this is what I believed would happen when I first signed up. Naturally, I believed that I had a chance to break out and through the "Wall of Publishing Fire” out onto the field, pumping my fists into the air and shouting with wild abandon: “Pick me! Pick me for Top Stories! Pick me!”
Well, if I am not going to be picked to play for first string, I can be a good team player for Team Vocal. I might not be a #1 draft pick, but I can be the water girl and slake the thirst for my other bench sitters by
- reading new authors,
- sharing their works on my social media, and
- tipping a few dollars.
I thought about what my own father used to say to me:
“Be a good person on your way up the ladder and offer your hand as you bypass others because you are going to have to pass the very same people again when you are on your way back down.”
Some of you might see this as a pessimistic commentary on success and a gross departure from what Russell Wilson’s father told him . . . that my father didn’t think I could “hold my place” at the top and that a series of downfalls are inevitable in my life.
But isn’t it a little true? Turns out that my father was a wise man. We all have ups and down, highs and lows, dry spells and flowing grooves as writers. If I can reach out a hand and pull someone up the ladder behind me as an enthusiastic reader or a media sharing cooperative element or a tiny tipper, I will do so.
I thought on this and wondered what I could do to help, until I realized that there was something significant I could do to encourage my Vocal teammates. I am implementing what I call “Tipping Tuesday.” This is what I am thinking:
Every Tuesday, I will determine a dollar amount (likely a rather minute amount at this point) and read new writers and tip their writing efforts. Every Tuesday will be Tipping Tuesday.
I realize my tips are but a drop in the proverbial water bucket, but I would suspect that even receiving a $1 tip could strengthen someone’s resolve and encourage him or her to finish that next article or story.
Time can have a way of neutralizing the most zealous of dreams and, for now, I have settled my bum onto the Vocal bench. I’m not sure if Vocal's version of coach Pete Carroll is going to let me out onto the field of Top Stories (Pick me! Pick me!), but I am suited up and ready.
It’s no longer the year 2014 – the year that the Seahawks crushed the Broncos. No, it’s the year 2021. After a year of experiencing brutal family loss and continuing to sequester myself to ensure compliance with the pandemic, I use my words on the page to break free from the bench and run wildly around the field, waving my arms in the air, hoping to catch that pigskin that I just know is going to come soaring into my hands.
I am ready, Vocal. Why not me?
Russell Wilson quote taken from the link:https://www.nfl.com/news/seahawks-russell-wilson-on-super-bowl-why-not-us-0ap2000000321904
About the Creator
Kennedy Farr
Kennedy Farr is a daily diarist, a lifelong learner, a dog lover, an educator, a tree lover, & a true believer that the best way to travel inward is to write with your feet: Take the leap of faith. Put both feet forward. Just jump. Believe.
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For the longest time, I believed my life was simply paused. Not broken. Not finished. Just waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the right person. Waiting for something—anything—to arrive and change everything. I didn’t know exactly what I was waiting for, but I was sure it would come. People always said things like “It’ll get better” or “Your time will come”, and I clung to those words like promises written in invisible ink. I believed that if I endured long enough, life would eventually reward my patience. So I waited. I waited quietly, because I didn’t want to be a burden. I waited politely, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I waited silently, because I didn’t even know how to explain what was wrong. From the outside, my life looked acceptable. I functioned. I showed up. I smiled when it was expected of me. I laughed at jokes that didn’t reach my heart. I answered “I’m fine” so often that it started to feel like muscle memory. But inside, something was eroding. 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That realization didn’t arrive with clarity or relief. It arrived like grief. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving. I remember sitting alone, staring at nothing in particular, and feeling the truth settle into my bones. There would be no rescue. No sudden turning point delivered by someone else’s effort. No moment where everything magically aligned and lifted me out of my own life. It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It was that everyone was busy surviving their own storms. I had been waiting for someone to save me from a life that only I was living. And for a while, that realization shattered me. I felt abandoned by the world, betrayed by hope itself. I questioned every prayer I had whispered into the dark, every moment I had chosen patience over action. I wondered if I had misunderstood life completely—if the promises I believed in were never meant for people like me. I mourned the version of myself who thought endurance alone was enough. There is a special kind of loneliness that comes from realizing your pain is invisible. That no matter how heavy it feels to you, the world keeps moving at the same pace. Bills still need to be paid. Responsibilities still demand attention. Smiles are still expected. So I kept going. But something inside me had cracked open. Once you see the truth, you can’t unsee it. And the truth was this: waiting had become my hiding place. Hope, without action, had become an excuse to stay small. I had been standing still, convincing myself that stillness was strength. It wasn’t. Saving myself didn’t begin with confidence. It began with fear. Fear of staying the same. Fear of waking up ten years later in the same emotional place. Fear of realizing that I had wasted my own life waiting for permission to live it. I didn’t suddenly become brave. I became tired of being helpless. The first steps were almost embarrassing in their simplicity. There was nothing poetic about them. 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But both are part of the same road. There were days I missed the comfort of waiting. Waiting meant responsibility belonged to someone else. Taking control meant accepting that my life—every imperfect part of it—was in my hands. That was terrifying. But it was also freeing. As I slowly rebuilt myself, I noticed something else. Not everyone wanted to walk with me into this new version of myself. Some people preferred the me who needed saving. The me who was easier to control, easier to dismiss, easier to define. Outgrowing people hurts. Outgrowing places hurts. Outgrowing old versions of yourself hurts most of all. But staying the same hurts longer. I lost connections I thought were permanent. I stepped away from spaces that no longer fit who I was becoming. Loneliness returned—but this time, it was different. This loneliness felt honest. It didn’t come from abandonment; it came from alignment. 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I stopped asking, Why is this happening to me? I started asking, What can I do with what’s happening? That question changed everything. Today, my life is not perfect. I still have days when old fears resurface. I still feel tired sometimes. I still wish things were easier. But I no longer wait for rescue. I trust myself now. I trust that even if things fall apart, I will be there to put them back together. I trust that my worth doesn’t depend on who shows up for me. I trust that I am capable of building a life that feels like my own. And maybe the most important thing I’ve learned is this: realizing nobody is coming to save you is not a sentence. It’s an invitation. An invitation to stop shrinking. An invitation to take responsibility for your healing. An invitation to become the person you’ve been waiting for. If you’re reading this and you feel stuck—if you feel invisible, exhausted, or quietly breaking—I want you to know this: you are not weak for waiting. You were doing the best you could with what you knew. But you don’t have to wait anymore. Sometimes, saving yourself doesn’t mean changing everything. It means choosing yourself once—then choosing yourself again tomorrow. And one day, you’ll look back and realize that the moment nobody came was the moment your life truly began.Start writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaq6 days ago in Motivation
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