writes

I'm a little envious of my friend Patricia Morrison, whose writing habits are so much more professional and disciplined than mine. She does have the benefit of a fabulous imagination and a journalism degree, but she couldn't have published a memoir, ten books of fantasy and two of mystery (with another one ready to go) without dedication and perseverance that I don't think I'll ever match. (Her newer books are available at Lulu and the older ones at Amazon and other good book search sites.)

Writing, mainly fiction, used to be my vocation. I was turned on by the ideas I had, when they came to me, as I allowed them to ripen, when they were finally ready for harvest. I had the habit of the double life, one life walking around while also testing every experience, sensation or phrase for use in the writing life.

I'm a verbally prolific talker and a very painstaking writer. I spent twenty-five years trying to find a method for bringing more stories to the page. Freewriting. Assigned writing. Writer's groups. Writing outdoors. Carrying a notebook everywhere. Pinning myself to the chair in front of a freshly opened doc for hours.

I had some encouraging response to the stories I finished: publication in New York Press when the brilliant John Strausbaugh was editor; an actor calling me out of the blue for permission to mount a dramatic presentation; a request to write a screenplay (boy, did that not pay off); spending six extraordinary weeks as a MacDowell colonist. And I eventually accumulated enough stories to fill a proper-sized collection.

I'm proud of those stories. I think they are well-written; I think they do something interesting with the language. I even feel that something good is added to the culture whether or not an artist manages go get their work out to a public, so I take satisfaction in that. I self-published them in a volume to give to friends. (And apparently you can buy a copy from Amazon.)

But I'm all out. For more than five years I've kept my brain case open for new seeds, but whatever nut or acorn drops in there, it never sprouts. No meat in the shell. No hungry body to begin accumulating ideas, words, contrasts. I miss that most of all. Nothing was better than living one life and writing another. And so while I credit Patricia, I am still a little envious that her mind remains fertile and her story-culture productive.

Roll

I've been on a roll lately.

I made an adjustment to my antidepressant regimen (if I keep up this blog and you keep reading it, you will be hearing more about chronic depression) and it seems to be working. The cycle of depression every three or four weeks has abated, for about three months now.

What a relief this is. It's like having the boot lifted from the back of your neck. It was such a slog working up momentum and enthusiasm again after every crushing, knowing that no matter what the boot would inevitably come down again.

It's disorienting. I have had to convince myself that what I was experiencing was real. Nah, that's a weak way of putting it. I was scared as hell that I'd be happy and creative for a while and then even more unbearably miserable when, if, when I got crushed again.

About six weeks ago I began to act as if I believed I would be able to maintain. I put together a second book of photographs, I wrote an afterword for it, I had more ideas for writing and pix, I started working on the websites I'd claimed during good times and then not had the ability to keep at.

Blah blah blah, me me me. The end of this post will not be all about me. Trust me.

I had plans the Friday before last to have dinner (dumplings) with my friend Karen, who I have not seen in a very long time. I was glad to be seeing her and in a groove where a night off would be lovely and not disruptive. Unfortunately, she was needed late at her job and we had to postpone. We resched'ed for Wednesday.

The weekend was a productive one for me. The momentum continued into the week - when I wasn't at my job, I spent a lot of time working for myself.

I felt torn between having dinner with Karen or feeding this streak. It was much on my mind Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. I decided I had to give myself the chance to maintain, not fall into an "if only I had" situation.

I also had a stubborn realization: Goddamit, it's OK for Karen, me, everybody I know who has to work for a living (everybody I know) to have to postpone the social for the sake of moneywork. We all understand. Am I really going to rank the work I do that makes living worthwhile lower than the work I do to make a living? Goddamit, no.

And it was a good choice. Karen understood, thank you, Karen. And I'm still on the roll. Did lots of writing and planning the rest of the workweek. Today I took the camera out for a walk. My eye was feeling fired up for the first time in a long time.

So, very nice for me, but here's the part that's not about me, me, me.

I (excuse the pronoun) read somewhere recently that a creative life is like a range with four burners: Money, Art, Family, Friends. And there's only enough gas for three of the burners to keep lit.

Money and Art are cooking along very nicely for me now. F and F, tho? The remaining gas I divvy up to keep those two flickering, at best warm.

In the last couple of weeks I haven't set eyes on a single one of my friends. I've had one phone conversation with my friend Patricia and spent some time mourning our mutual friend, Mary. I've had one email exchange with my brother and one phone conversation with my mother. That's it. Every face I faced was to earn money or spend some.

I can't believe I've written a "life is like a box of..." post. But there's a lot of truth in the Parable of the Four Burners.