I loved Seuss as a kid and his work continues to get to me now. To all you graduates–peace, joy and enormous success. Oh, the places you’ll go!

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
by Dr. Seuss

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look ‘em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so
but, sadly, it’s true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump,
you’re not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t.
Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times
you’ll play lonely games too.
Games you can’t win
’cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

Stacey Miller*, book publicist extraordinaire, believes in flexibility, responding to and anticipating trends. Yes, respect for tradition helps us avoid repeating mistakes, but it can also be stagnating. It prevents us from moving forward, from growing.

Flexibility, change, evolution—for many of us, certainly for me, these are unsettling words. It’s comforting to carry on business as usual, live our daily lives, do the same things over and over. Rely on experience, little guesswork, and no risk, involved. Change means opening yourself to possibility—including the possibility of failure.

For a fiction writer, change, flexibility, evolution ought to be easy. Every project is new, and publishing, as everyone knows, is in flux. Most of us write on speculation—unless you’re a bestselling mega-hit wonder, like Stephenie Meyer or Stephen King, you have no guarantees—the possibility of rejection high, that you’ll feel like a failure yet higher.

So why bother? Why take a chance?

Good question, one I ask myself all the time. The mantra writers usually cling to: I have to write. My life depends on it. Hyperbole aside, it’s a self-serving lie. If I so chose, like any writer, I could give up writing, well, maybe not writing, but fiction writing surely. Let’s face it: the world can afford to lose a few novelists, a few hundred, a few thousand, easily.

No, my life does not depend upon writing. But my psyche does. Funny thing is, the uncertainty drives me. Publishing my next novel, if I’m lucky, if I write a good enough book, will happen—or won’t. As long as the project lives, possibility abounds. I have hope.

The world changes, evolves, in a flash. It’s hard to keep track, hard to keep up. The strident march of technology often feels overwhelming. Of course people are scared.

And yet.

Sure, it’s harder now to succeed in old-fashioned ways, harder to publish a book, harder to sell anything. Yet, if we seize the moment, take a chance on a new venture, open our hearts and minds, stay flexible, allow ourselves to evolve, ignore the birdy in our head, telling us to give up, forget it, invest in something less risky, we can do almost anything. We can reach heights we only dreamed of before.

Today, the world is full of possibility. We have hope. We’re finally free.

What have you taken a chance on? What will you take a chance on tomorrow? Please leave a comment.

*Read about Stacey’s terrific new book, 101 Recipes for Microwave Mug Cakes—recently featured on the Rachel Ray Show.

Recently, I asked students in my Web communications class to post a blog in response to the articles  “The Selling of a President,” by Joe McGinniss, from Parade magazine, and “Coakley v Brown: The Social Media Divide May Decide Election,” from the Huffington Post–pieces dealing with social media and political discourse.

Based on their previous blog entries, I anticipated a lukewarm response. While their writing, throughout the semester, had been consistently thoughtful, I rarely saw any emotional investment. Now, to my surprise, they wrote passionately about their frustrations with politics, the ways social media had nudged and encouraged them to engage in the political world.

Many older folks believe young people to be indifferent to politics. Young adults had come out in droves in support of Barack Obama, a supposed anomaly their elders chalked up to youth, liberal naiveté, fan-like worship of a handsome, electrifying candidate. Surely, the stunning turnout had been induced by a Facebook-inspired mob mentality, a desire to conform or be cool, an inner drive swept into action by Obama’s tsunami-like Internet marketing campaign.

My students’ responses, though an admittedly small, anecdotal sampling, are telling. Turns out, while young people do, indeed, look to Facebook for current news and information, for the most part network affiliations, the urgings of friends, provide insufficient motivation for them to engage politically, never mind to get out and vote. Nor do young adults necessarily vote in self-interest. No, it’s about respect. A candidate who specifically addresses them, who listens—a candidate who takes them seriously—earns their devotion. By addressing young adults through a media they understood and claimed as their own, Barack Obama told young people you matter. I care.

Not so different, really, from the way the rest of us—parents, teachers, coaches, mentors—ought to think of them and behave.

For the last month, I’ve been trying—trying being the operative word—to quit eating chocolate. It’s actually sugar I’d like to eliminate, but the main culprit being chocolate—I can resist almost anything else—that’s where I’ve focused.

This should be easy. It’s not, after all, like kicking a coke habit. Besides, I’ve done it before. (Obviously, I fell off the wagon; but still.) This should be easy, but it’s not. Lately, to fool myself—foods gobbled in secret don’t count—I’ve resorted to sneaking. What’s so tough about this?

Why can’t I just quit?

Because it’s hard—damn hard—especially at Easter, bags of irresistible mini-eggs, like M&M Peanut candy on steroids, stashed in my office closet. All this surreptitious eating makes me think about people struggling with serious addictions, to alcohol or drugs, coke, heroin, Oxycontin, meth, also to food.

It’s easy, and tempting, to label addicts as “other,” people with moral failings, weak constitutions. Addicts, like the homeless, look different from us. Many of them wear their addiction, in their sunken cheeks or hefty thighs, their erratic behavior. We avert our eyes, pretend not to notice, but the judgment is clear. I’ve done it myself.

Blaming the addict assumes a distinction, an “us” and a “them,” allows me to claim—despite its hollow ring—moral superiority. The addict’s otherness reassures me, however tenuous the security. Inside my mental circle, I’m insulated from messy reality. I’m different from “those people.” They’re lazy, unreliable, selfish. Unlike them, I hold myself accountable; therefore, I’ll never be a drunk, a coke-head, a junkie.

Yet, here I am, enslaved by my chocolate jones. Of course, a chocolate addiction hardly correlates to an addiction to coke. Nevertheless, I can’t seem to kick the habit. Maybe I’m not so different, after all.

Maybe it’s time to grow some compassion, time to let the prejudice go.

I’m just saying.

In a true story I heard recently, a teenage girl complained to her mom that she’d been having trouble achieving an orgasm. It wasn’t fair, the girl said. Boys have all the fun. Could Mom give her some tips?

This candid talk resulted in a genuine heart-to-heart, a true Kodak moment—and I applaud them. Really, I do. Had my teenage daughter come to me with that complaint—while I’d love to say that, calling on maturity and deep inner wisdom, I’d have answered honestly, maybe given a mock demo (hey, if you’re going to imagine, might as well go all the way)—the truth is, I probably would have told her to ask one of her girlfriends. Or look it up in a book. Or try Google. I mean, seriously, what’s a search engine for?

I know, I know: It’s a parent’s responsibility to ensure that our teens, if they’re having sex, are, in all ways, protected. Moms need to know the intimate details of their kids’ lives so they can ferret out trouble. To grow and flourish, all close relationships, between parent and child, husband and wife, or friend and friend, rely on a certain degree of intimacy. To truly be close to another person, we have to open up, share, allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Still, a teenage girl asking her mom for advice on reaching orgasm? Sorry. TMI.

Today, nothing is sacred. No information is too shameful, too private or too intimate to share. I’m not talking about Kim Kardashian posting sexually explicit videos on the Net or former gal-pals of Tiger Woods sharing lurid text messages. Nor am I referring to exhibitionists who post uncensored 24/7 podcasts or vlogs of themselves on their website.

I mean regular people, who, before the dawn of this obsessively open  culture, kept their private info, well, private. In the Neolithic age, when I was a kid, people hid everything. You didn’t talk about post-partum depression, for instance; you popped a pill. If your husband strayed, your kids were in trouble, your family faced financial ruin, a relative suffered from alcoholism or mental disease—you were on your own. If you suffered, for the most part, you suffered in silence—a tough life for people who needed support.

People who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, open up to others talked to their therapist. Early talk shows, a stand-in for legit psychotherapy, encouraged guests to talk openly; over time, as guests shared increasingly personal details with soothing hosts like Oprah, we viewers grew accustomed to listening, thus normalizing our nascent impulse to mirror the talk show guests we admired and tell all. Now, porn queens become overnight stars, Desperate Housewives rake in millions for humiliating themselves on TV and social networks, like mean-girl cliques, practically force us, if we hope to be recognized as one of the gang, to spill our guts on a “wall.”

In the old days, we barely knew our next-door neighbors. Now we’re on intimate terms with our mail carrier and the local dry-cleaning clerk. Call me old-fashioned: I’m not interested in hearing the gory details about childbirth or a grisly account of any medical procedure involving bodily fluids or blood. I don’t want to hear about your toilet feats (color, size or consistency) or your problems with incontinence or gas. I prefer to hear nothing, zero, nada, zilch, about your sex life, beyond it’s OK or it’s not (then only in particular cases). If you get trashed and puke your guts out or bang your boss, your boss’s wife or some girl or guy you met in an alley, bully for you—if you’re happy, I’m happy. But, please, don’t tell me about it. Frankly, I don’t want to know.

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