A Phobia of Platitude

 

1.

The fear of happiness is one of those fears that can make my eyes roll. Come on. Really? Being afraid of feeling happy?

And yet, a curious thing has happened. It started with my pregnancy, with my staying still and settling down. When times are tough (e.g. when I’m fighting with my husband or worried about money), I’m not afraid. I’m too busy dealing. When things are good, when I feel an exuberance of love for my husband, when I hold my baby’s strong and smart body, when I sit down after a good meal and think, life is good, fear rears its monstrous noggin. Waves of anxiety wash out heart beats. I have to regulate my breath. What if something happens? What if something terrible happens?

The fear is worse in moments when I am most tempted to acknowledge my satisfaction with things. The fear is worse when I feel the most happy.

2.

A weeks ago, I came across this passage in Jose Saramago’s The Double:

He arrived in the late afternoon, parked the car outside the door of the apartment building, and then, nimble, lithe, and in the best of moods, …  walked up the stairs as lightly as an adolescent, not even noticing the weight of his suitcase … and he very nearly danced into his apartment. In accordance with the traditional conventions of the literary genre known in Portuguese as the romance, or novel, and which will continue to be called thus until someone comes up with a term more in keeping with its current configuration, this cheery description, organized as a simple sequence of narrative events in which, quite deliberately, not a single negative note was struck, would be cunningly placed there in preparation for a complete contrast, which, depending on the writer’s intentions, could be dramatic, brutal, or terrifying, for example, a murder victim lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a convention of souls from the next world, a swarm of furious drones i heat who mistake the history teacher [the hero] for a queen bee, or, worse still, all of this combined into a single nightmare, for, as has been demonstrated ad nauseam, the imagination of the Western novelist knows no limits, or rather, it hasn’t since the days of the aforementioned Homer, who, when one thinks about it, was the first novelist.

It’s true, the Western novelist knows no limits, and unfortunately (for me) my instinct for story was oozing into my small, domestic life.

And I don’t think this literary dread is contained to the writer. If you watch read books, if you hear/tell stories, if you watch movies at all, you know this ancient story structure. The formula is natural. It is the hero’s archetypal journey.

So, here I was, anticipating my life’s next plot twist, as if I were a helpless character in someone’s dramatic story.

Irrational, a bit crazy, but even after seeing all this, I couldn’t shake the anxiety. In fact, it got worse.

 

3.

I’ve read that in nightmares it’s good to turn and face the monster/killer/animal pursuing you. It’s helpful to turn and look them in the awful face and say their name. Call them out. Ask them what they want.

So, two days ago, as ridiculous as it felt, I said my fears out loud. I told my husband I was afraid I would die or he would die or something would happen to little Henry. I felt silly. My fear felt closer and worse. He just hugged me and I felt like I’d made a mistake in saying anything at all.

Then I slept on it. I dreamed that an important person died and I attended that person’s funeral. It felt real and very sad, but by the end of the dream, I had already started to heal, and I woke up to this renewed understanding of that old cliche, that death is what makes life so sweet, so joyous, so poignant and valuable.

I kid you not, I felt better and I feel better. I’ll admit, I feel a little self-conscience posting this at all, but it felt so important, when I realized it. That bad things may happen, in fact, some bad things will probably happen, but for now, things are good, and if I see a pair of stairs, I will walk up them nimble, lithe, and in the best of moods.

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The Sordid Fantasy Life of a Writer

1. Writer Versus Author

Almost a month ago I read a post on Vanessa Condez’s blog Note to Self: Humanize. The post, entitled “How to be a Great Writer” personably and (at times) earnestly, relayed advice, thoughts and inquiries on the aforementioned topic. I enjoy Cordez’s blog for all its honesty, information and interesting slant (she writes in her second language: English). I, however, could not walk away from this particular post without feeling a bit bothered.

The notion that writers must struggle with not only writing (and she, in a second language!) but the identity-based dilemma of how to be a writer, to boot, is troublesome.

Condez writes:

Like Elizabeth George explains in her book “Write Away”, there’s a difference between wanting to be an Author and wanting to be a Writer…

…If you dream about becoming an Author, that means basically you want to be famous for your writing – whether it’s any good or not, – if you want to be a Writer you want, purely, to write!

Writers don’t aspire to be famous; they dream about having their books on a Bookstore’s shelf. The aspiring Writer would be delighted just by the possibility of earning enough income to pay all her bills. She would be very happy if she ever had a bestseller, but the true Writer doesn’t dream about being famous. (See the difference?).

Max Brod= Author (like) Franz Kafka=Writer

Elizabeth George’s no-sweat delineation between “author” and “writer” based on one’s fantasy life has nagged at me for weeks. What pressure and how invasive the judgmental standards!

2. The Greats

At a certain point, I think most artists ask themselves, Am I the real deal? Unfortunately, there’s no online quiz or blood test that can tell you. Thus, lines like the What-Do-You-Fantasize-About line are drawn. The artist is either bolstered (or crippled) by their response, and either continue or don’t with the up hill battle that is the life of the (fill in the blank).

I am convinced that many, if not most of the “genius” artists we know of today created much of their image to satisfy that question: Am I a part of the “great” artist lineage? Can I call myself a Great Artist?

I cannot help but think of a line I read in a book about the extravagant George Ohr, one of the first ceramic artists. The line read something like, “One of George’s greatest creations was George, himself.” He coined himself the “Mad Potter of Biloxi” and grew a monstrous mustache, establishing his legend as a potter for generations to come.

On his death bed, Daniel Webster is rumored to have blathered on and on rather incoherently. At one point, however, he snapped to attention and begged his friends and family assure him he had not said anything "unworthy of Daniel Webster".

Even scientists: I recently learned on This American Life that the story of Ben Franklin and his kite was fabricated by Ben Franklin himself towards the end of his life in order to bolster the legend he left behind (as if it needed bolstering!)

Most of us don’t consider our legacy in this way. Most of us simply want an answer now: am I or aren’t I?

3. My Sordid Fantasy Life Exposed

The chastity expected of the “true writer” use to be a source of anxiety for me, but recently, I’ve come to view it all as arbitrary. I’ve put the matter to rest by bringing a what some would call philosophically crude mantra to the table: I write, therefore I am a writer.

I’ve been writing since I was in second grade–before I understood the word “publish”. I wrote my first (100 plus) page book when I was in middle school. The Clue of the Rose was a complete Nancy Drew rip off, but a book, nonetheless–but here I am defending myself, my image.

I like to write. It is fulfilling to me. It helps me get by, and I like to think I’m good at it.

My fantasy life, however, is far from the Kafkaesque Ideal. In the spirit of honesty, I’ve fantasized about both: being rich and being famous.

More specifically:

Being Rich(ish)

• Scene: I’m standing in my boss’s office telling him I got a book deal. I put in my two weeks and spend it saying farewell to food service once and for all.
• Scene: I’m at the doctor’s office not worried about how I am going to pay for it (this may come true soon with or without a book deal).
• Scene: I have hours to write. I’m sitting in a house (that is mine) looking out a window (that is mine) onto a gnarly wooded expanse (that is mine-ish). I take a break writing to eat some expensive cheese, crackers and olives.

Being Famous(ish)

Charlie Kaufman presents himself in "Adaptation" as needy for things besides writing (some of them less noble than others).

(Some of these get embarrassing)

• Scene: I am being interviewed for my biography. I narrate (and thus, recreate) my life for someone who is endlessly (and enthusiastically) interested.
• Scene: The writing struggle no longer feels so lonely.
• Scene: I am on television, in a magazine, on the radio, whatever. The point of this fantasy is that all those folks who didn’t believe in me see me and think, “wow. I was wrong.”
• Scene: I am a rather socially awkward, shy, and nervous person (and it’s worsened over time). I often fantasize about achieving a herculean level of articulation before people who I’ve stuttered and stammered in front of–usually on a radio show or book signing (why those people would be at my book signing, I don’t really know, but it’s my fantasy, so it doesn’t really matter).

4. I’m no Hero

Writer’s need their audiences, and as a solution, Vanessa Condez suggests you become your own reader. While I think this is worthy advice to a point, I think you can take this too far. While this may be selfish or “authorly” of me, I want an external audience. I need an external audience. I begin to feel a little schizophrenic after playing writer/reader for too long.

Yes, I conclude, (with some timidity, I admit) that I am a writer; but I am also human; and I think it is important that I do not doubt either, and neither should you, Vanessa Condez.

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