When I look back at the four years I spent writing for Lotus, which was for all intents and purposes my MFA in Narrative Non-Fiction, the theme that is apparent in nearly all my writing is an at times desperate effort to inspire the people who were reading the magazine. Perhaps this was in part tied to rave community that I was serving: I knew first hand how the dance community could pull in people who were ripe for change…and at times, these people could get spit out, having only achieved substance abuse and poor sleeping patterns as their marks of change. But I’d also seen people gain a deeper understanding of community, a heightened awareness of participatory entertainment, and an increased questioning of, well, the dominant paradigm.

My old Lotus writings were almost all entreatments; words reaching out across the paper to pull people’s minds and hearts toward something I saw as more important than just flashing lights and loud music. Sure: it sounds a little idealistic and naive now, even to me. But the letters I received from people suggested otherwise. I heard from a 19 year old methamphetamine addict who’d dropped her habit and turned to hatha yoga. I heard from event promoters who decided to throw charity fundraisers based on articles they’d read in the magazine. I heard from high school kids who’d shown Lotus to their parents because the magazine conveyed not necessarily what raving was, but the potential ravers saw for themselves.

That era is over now — I left the magazine at the beginning of 2001, and it collapsed quietly last fall. The community it served is still there, but everyone’s a little older and I’m not sure if the windbag pedantic style of the publication would be a good fit.

I assumed, perhaps cynically, that the inspiration theme of my writing was over when I finished my work with Lotus. Some of the articles I’ve written since leaving the magazine have been snarky and harsh. Certainly, some of my own disillusionment has shown through the seams, and I thought maybe my new writing theme would be sex or culture critique.

But I find myself returning to themes of inspiration again and again. The Inspirers, my essay about projecting our visions of ourselves onto other people, got some of the most impassioned (and satisfying) responses ever seen on Electrolicious. Whether I say it explicitly or not, my obsession with hooping is in part driven by sharing the hoop joy with others, people who protest, “Oh no, I can’t do that,” only to find themselves five minutes later howling with glee and gyrating despite themselves.

There’s something deeply gratifying about helping people find some hidden potential, some secret capacity for the ecstatic that they’d forgotten was moldering on an internal shelf. This propensity concerns me a bit: I worry I’ll gravitate towards a career as a self-appointed newage (rhymes with sewage) self-help guru. Can’t you just hear me? “You too can make money from other’s insecurities — take my workshop and learn how! Only $599 for a two day intensive course!” I may be headed for a destitute life as a writer of Footprints In The Sand-style inspirational greeting cards. If you find me doing something like that, please send my mom over to slap some sense into me with a sage smudging stick. Thanks.

I needn’t worry, I suppose: such careers necessitate an ability to accept praise graciously (”Oh, thank you, thank you — you know, I really think you’d be a great candidate for my next workshop, ‘Turning Rampant Egoism Into A Viable Spiritual Practice…And Income!‘”), and I’m terrible at accepting compliments. A friend recently had to sit me down and have a serious heart-to-heart with me about how frustrating it was for her that I could never look her in the eye and say “thank you” when she complimented me. I tend to shrug off compliments, and more than once I’ve said, “Don’t you dare put me up on some sort pedestal — not unless you’re on a pedestal of your own!” Inspirational self-help gurus have to be able to graciously accept fawning compliments. I cannot, nor to I anticipate gaining the skill.

Regardless, if I’m honest with myself, I can see that inspiration is a reoccurring theme in my writing. How to integrate that with my sense of humor, foul mouth, and jaded disposition remains to be seen. This is part of why, while many of my friends whimper about getting closer to 30, I am slightly impatient: writers can only improve with age. I’m muddled and confused and can only hope that by the time I’m in my 50s, I’ve got a slightly clearer vision of what the hell I want to say. Until then, I’ll just make do with letting employers pay me to write what they want to say. Hackneyed, sure. But keeps those muscles in shape while I figure out how to avoid a life as a newage guru or inspirational greeting card writer.