Down to the letter...

Years ago I came across a quote that has never left me:

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency, he is not really alive unless he is creating."
--Pearl Buck

So much of this quote rings true for me, including the idea that failure is death. I think this is one of the reasons that I hesitate so often with my own writing. I write and hide away what I've created, but I don't share it, and as I've mentioned before, after a while I lose faith in it.

There's this story of a writer who worked on the first three pages of a draft, crumpled them up and threw them away, convinced the story wasn't going anywhere. He was married with two young children. Bills were paid but things were tight. Reading about his job is enough to make one's stomach turn. He worked for a laundry company where soiled linens were shipped. He talked about unsavory insects and bodily fluid. But he worked to pay the bills for his family and dreamed of putting it behind him one day. He gave up on those three pages, but his wife found them and read them. She encouraged him to keep going. She believed there was something in that story. That story was Carrie, and it's safe to say its publication launched Stephen King's career.

I've read his book On Writing countless times. Some days I pick it up and let it fall open, joining the conversation in medias res. Sometimes I go to page one and start over or flip through to some of the underlined bits. I always find something to remind me of why I care so much about putting the words to the page. King stated, "Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don't have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough."

There are hundreds of amazing stories out there, sitting on shelves. There's also a lot of stuff that isn't as amazing. Everyone has their own personal preferences, and books are meant for enjoyment. So if you enjoy reading a book, do so. But storytelling is an art, and some are better at it than others. I'm talking about the differences between something like Rowling's Harry Potter series (which I would rank amazing) versus Meyer's Twilight series. I've read both series, start to finish. I picked up the first book in each for the same reason: to see what all the fuss/buzz was about.

In the case of Rowling, I was immediately transported into a world of fantasy and wonderful storytelling. The books were geared toward children, but readers of all ages were swept into Harry's adventures. I stayed up late reading them, devouring chapters. I cried when certain characters met their end.

On the flip side, I read the Twilight series begrudgingly. I read it so that I could discuss the entire series, because so many people told me that I had to read the whole thing, because the story got so much better. In my opinion, it did not. There were a lot of things I took issue with in Meyer's work, but I won't go into that now. The point is, I'd definitely consider it less-than-amazing.

But in both cases, and with King's crumpled pieces of his Carrie manuscript, someone believed in the story. All three works have gone on to become pop culture references, and more often than not, even if people haven't read the books, they are familiar with the concepts. All because someone other than the writer believed in the story that was being told.

Trouble is I’m so exhausted
The plot, you see, I think I’ve lost it
I need the grace to find what can’t be found
Long Lost Brother, Over the Rhine

Against the dying of the light...

The words have been hard lately. I think sometimes it's not a case of Writer's Block at all; we just don't want to tackle the words we ought to write. Something has been strong in my mind, yet I couldn't bring myself to put it down. It would make it all too real. But I cannot hope to conquer if I will not face my fears. I believe that to achieve honesty in my writing, here and elsewhere, I have to be honest. So I have to confess: I've lied to you.

I don't mean to cause alarm. It's just that too often when people ask how are you there's not really an option for an honest answer. At work, customers usually hear I'm great, thanks for asking! The friends and family discount means it's usually a less enthusiastic answer, ranging from fine to good or if I'm feeling more honest, tired or having a bad pain day. I know that I ask people how they are on a daily basis. Chances are, they're lying to me, too.

Depression isn't something you talk about easily. I could take the easy way out and point to the amazing blog post at Hyperbole And A Half and leave it at that. But that's a little too casual.

Picture courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half

I'm better than I was a a year ago, but it has been a long road. I don't have an official diagnosis, but for a long time I guess I didn't realize something was not quite right. It's easier on the outside, looking in, to see when things are off balance in such a drastic way. For me, I was too busy dealing with the moment to think about the big picture. And on the occasions where I realized that I might need the support of a friend, I didn't know how to make that phone call. I stared at my phone, trying to think of a casual way to start a conversation. Some of us really don't like to impose on others. We're often the same people who will go out of our way to help others.

I was in a long line at the grocery store yesterday evening, trying my best to be patient. It wasn't anyone in particular's fault. I have a tendency to lose patience in the grocery store when there are too many people. And I had too many groceries to make use of the self-checkout. An older woman was ahead of me, back starting to hunch, fingers gnarled with a tell-tale sign of arthritis. I set the grocery divider at the end of the belt and she apologized for not doing it for me. Somehow, we got on the topic that it was her daughter-in-law in line ahead of her, helping. I smiled and said how good it was to have people to take care of us.

And that's really the point I'm trying to make.

It's easy to forget things, to say the wrong thing, to make a mistake, to forget to call, write, email or Facebook. It's easy to take offense, to place blame, to think someone sees things the same way we do and get angry when they don't. Sometimes it's hard to see through the haze of our own hardships. But we always have the opportunity to help bring goodness into someone else's life.

Through their actions, my parents taught me how vitally important it is to take care of each other. Whether it's a family member, close friend or a stranger, we can all do something to help the other people in our lives. Because we all have hard times, and chances are when you look at someone and you ask how are you, they might not have the right words to tell you they're not fine.

Take care of each other. Words aren't always easy. Love is.

Who Honors those we love for the very life we live? Who sends monsters to kill us and at the same time sings that we'll never die? Who teaches us what's real and how to laugh at lies? Who decides why we live and what we'll die to defend? Who chains us and who holds the key that can set us free?

It's you.

You have all the weapons you need. Now fight.
-Suckerpunch