Everyone loves a good cat story and my friendly writer from Norman, Oklahoma, likes to publish her feline companion tales wherever they are needed. Her stories are little bright spots in my world of climate change, disruptive people problems, and political faux pas, and her kind and gentle nature is a contrast to my often misinterpreted academic style, an issue I am too adrift to work on.
She is no slob behind the pen, so I am including her thoughts on what it means to become a fully invested and devoted writer. First, lighten up with her little cat musings. It's a hot Sunday afternoon on a summer day. It's a day for the porch, iced tea, and cool chicken salad sandwiches on white bread.
Why not read something?
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Who ever sent me the book about the naughty cats that are trying to bump off their owners, this story is for you. Since the book's arrival, You-You, the cat, has arisen from his deathbed inspired with new ideas. As you know, he delights in tormenting me, but has slacked off due to infirmity. Now, he simply contents himself with lying on the kitchen floor wherever I need to be. For example, if I am cooking, he sleeps in front of the stove. If I'm washing dishes, he camps underneath the sink. So far, I haven't stepped on him.
Yesterday, I set down piddle pads on the floor for him to use. (He is in the pee-off-the porch-level of old-cat-man decrepitude.) Suspicious that he would be complying with any idea about using piddle pads, I followed him and watched in horror as he lunged toward a cell phone that had somehow fallen on top of the pads. I only managed to whisk the phone away before the great cat deluge began.
To my horror, I discovered that it was my phone that he had nearly deactivated by drowning. I was so angry that I cursed, especially, when You-You stood on the pads but aimed his stream at the carpet. Over my shouting, I could hear Lee, my husband, calling from the other room, telling me to calm down before I had a heart attack.
Yes, the book worked. It gave You-You a new reason to live. He is outside now, happily lounging on the porch, revived by my near brush with death of his own creating. Bless his evil cat heart. I love him so. ~Jennie
Writing, In a State of Flux
A few days ago, acclaimed Native American mystery novelist, Sara Sue Hoklotubbe, shared a great meme with fellow writers. It said, to wit: “To write something, you have to risk making a fool of yourself. At the end of the day, every single thing that you, the rhetorical you, put down on paper is a risk. You risk making a fool of yourself, you risk rejection, and you risk failure.” The former is valuable wisdom, as stated by the late, great Ann Rice, noted Vampire lady, and her warning resonates--with me at least. My family is distantly related to Edgar Allan Poe, and I was warned by my own mother to never put anything down on paper. Looking back on Poe’s private life, I’ve often wondered what in particular prompted her to say that—but then, as an artist, Poe had a lot of baggage to work with. However, as Poe is relevant to this day. It seems that all the very best artists have had issues! We see that working through one’s issues through the written word may lighten the burden for others who are overwhelmed by their journey.
As for myself, I plan to just keep on writing. I figure that, since I make a fool of my own self at least nine or ten times a day anyway, all without really trying, I might as well make a career of it. Indeed, Anne Rice’s insights into both human and vampire nature warns that I will probably indeed make an ass of myself. Therefore, I will giddily take my MILWAUKEE INKZALL, ultrafine, black, red pen to hand, and throw caution to the winds. (One wonders, is that popular term a repeatable idiom or verboten cliché?) I will defy my parent’s attempt to shield me from ridicule and prove Rice’s theory correct. In retrospect, I’ve made a fool of myself many times before. But I have always survived the humiliation, and, so, will you.
We bravely say that writers write to encourage others on, however, why would any relatively sane individual offer up their private thoughts on paper and open themself up to public derision? In short, just why do writers write? We write because we love to write, and, because, I fear, that we have a compulsion—a creative compulsion—that’s almost bipolar in nature. The sheer act of creating is a joy—giving character’s being and words and a destiny is heady stuff. Sadly, this high is followed by the “drop”, where you release these creations upon the world. It is probably called the drop, because your insides fall to the floor and turn flipflops like a fish out of water, while you are waiting for validation or lack of it. (Again, I love me some good cliches, can I use fish out of water as a metaphor?) (Oh, wait, I already did.)
Believe me, I’ve asked some trusted sources and the drop provides the same traumatic experience for successful authors and unpublished writers alike. So, here we are angsting, after releasing our child of the mind into the void. We experience the dark night of the soul as our characters did, while we breathlessly wait to find out, as in the words of songwriter Celldweller, “Am I in Sync?” Here, the artist anxiously questions if anyone else out there will “get” him? In Celldweller’s case, many do. Celldweller’s personal voyage through pain and despair gives others courage to pull the stake out of their own heart and place it firmly through their tormentor’s. Celldweller’s words take away his abuser’s power to harm him. If you read the comment lines on his releases, there are many people who appreciate the singer-songwriter giving their personal trauma validation—yes, they’ve been unfairly victimized and they’ve been through something. No, it wasn’t easy surviving. However, these victims are slathering lotion on scars, they haven’t been silenced, they are still here, their feelings’ matter, it is not a pity party to embrace personal pain, and damn all the condescension from those compassionless judgers, who have never suffered, straight to hell.
But, now you say, “So, catharsis is well and good, but, why should I bother to write at all, when the world is literally and figuratively melting around me?” Just like in Run The Jewels’s musical offerings, Indie-musician Blue Stahli’s anthem, “ULTRAnumb,” or Miyazaki’s movie, “Nausica,” the atmosphere quivers with fury. Everything is polarized and vice versa: right is angry with left, left is angry with progressives, this religion is angry at that other religion, vegetarians despise omnivores, mask objectors hate mask wearers, yin is yang, and, etc.
However, humanity is self-aware. We anticipate that the end is coming. We are threatened by the existential doom of our way of life that so many politicians and business people happily destroying along with the resulting wild ride to destruction. Writing can help you make sense of your OWN life and not be at the mercy of every nutjob that comes along touting a baseless conspiracy designed to hold you sway. Behold, the great and powerful Oz! But, pay no mind to that man lurking in the shadows behind the curtain!”
Now, back to that end of the world thingee that I mentioned before. Let it bring out the best in you; we are a mortal species that have always lived under the specter of death. It’s a given that nothing lives forever, and even our sun will go nova one day. Nothing is different, except for the rate of change, which has sped up to an astronomical mind-bending rate, on our self-inflicted pathway to extinction. Perhaps, this is what the song of the whales’ mean—death is coming for you and me, lets pause and enjoy our cool blue sea, let us celebrate our mutual beautiful company. Existential threats serves to make everything, somehow, more poignant, more meaningful, more bittersweet than ever before, and writing provides a sea anchor to slow us down on our way over the abyss’ edge and into the unknown, much as the blue whale stands on tail and pours his heart out to his lovers in the sea—“Whales Weep Not”.
So, by now you are pouring yourself a good stiff drink or something of that nature. Fine, the relaxation might provide you some unique insight to put into your project. Strange times call for even stranger measures, so, I will call upon the notorious legacy of actor, author, and screen writer Ed Wood Jr. for inspiration. Ed Wood, tortured creator of “Plan 9 from Outer Space”, admonishes new writers to “Just keep writing.” He says that your story may not get any better but you will. It is reported that Ed Wood’s death mask expression looked as if he had seen into the pits of hell.
Sadly, Wood led a tortured existence and I guess that he wasn’t quite through wrestling with his private demons before he jumped onto the next phase of his karmic wheel. However, we are still on this mortal plane, where writing is the preferred method of demonic wrestling. I would recommend it to the real thing--having done that in a dream, I must warn you that those little devils can inflict a lot of physical pain on your way to the truth. Sadly, you most likely will need to wrestle your demon, in order to get at the truth of what you are trying to say and a writer should always tell the truth--no matter what.
At this point, you are saying, “but, I’ve got nothing important to say; I personally don’t care to wrestle with demons, and, everything is going to hell anyway, so what’s the point?” Before you give up writing to take up drinking on a full-time basis—remember, that the “truth will set you free.” Consider this nugget of advice offered up by poet Sarah Webb. Out of an outpouring of compassion, Webb has declared that a writer should keep on going, because there may be someone out there who needs to hear just exactly what you have to say.
Dr. Webb is an author who walks her talk (Oh, oh is that slang, an idiom, or a cliché?). She reaches out to fellow victims, by publishing a poetry book, that describes how she finally found the strength to walk away from the man, whom should have cherished and protected she and her child and did anything but. Sarah’s confessions are some of the bravest things that I’ve ever read, and I admire her sacrifice completely. She put the complete truth out there for the entire world to benefit from her experience.
You might ask yourself, why would anyone deliberately put themselves through all that emotional pain again just to tell their truth? Certainly, purging oneself of haunting memories is healing. However, the poet could have just as easily journaled her experiences and then burned the papers that they were written upon and experienced catharsis just the same. I believe, the poet shared her pain, because, of her unique gift—the ability to weave a story that lifted others above their own trauma and allowed readers to also heal. We writers can explain that there are many who have suffered, and when their readers learn that they are not the only one to be degraded, then, perhaps, they can rise above the shame that their abuser has used to control them, and spring others out of their eternal hell, too.
Writing is a paradox; by showing ourselves at our most vulnerable, we can achieve Maat. The willingness to go on in the face of adversity, the nobility of sacrificing ourselves for others is strengthening. The bravery to spit non-existence in the face and say that though we are winding down the path of entropy, though, the moon is full of grief, and the birds no longer sing, though, the sun who gave us life will mean our death, the human condition is sacred. We are meta. We acknowledge and value our beautiful place in the universe. Our souls are full of love for our fellow man. When we overcome our differences and hatred, we will mirror and pour our beauty out until the end of our time. My friends, take hold of that universe and wrestle it into being.
~ Jennie