Wet Ink

When "Mad" is a Crazy Word

"A little girl of seventeen in a mental hospital told me she was terrified because the Atom Bomb was inside her. That is a delusion. The statesmen of the world who boast and threaten that they have Doomsday weapons are far more dangerous, and far more estranged from 'reality' than many of the people on whom the label 'psychotic' is affixed." R.D. Laing in The Divided Self: An Existential Study in Sanity and Madness

One of my favourite paintings at the MFA in Boston is Van Gogh's Ravine. Like Starry Night, Ravine was created while the artist was in the mental hospital of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole. He had little access to the outside world, save for the gardens, and though his state of mind was unsettled and bleak, he painted these extraordinary pieces.

Anais Nin, who worked as a psychoanalyst, once spoke of her work and life as a kind of "incendiary neurosis", her word-choice being deliberate, I'm sure. She explained, "I only believe in fire." In fact, "Being on fire," she said, "I set others on fire..." She knew her reality was different to that of others, often expressing a belief in dream, not fact. (See Fire, Fire, A Journal of Love, by Anais Nin).

I have a deep respect for different psychologies, as do many writers. In fact, I feel this very keenly when I read or watch King Lear. In the final scene, Lear holds his daughter dead in his arms* and his words are harrowing; yet after accepting her death, he still wants to hold the mirror to her mouth to see if her breath will "mist or stain". So many of us know what it is to lose a loved-one, and to hope, against reason, they might somehow not be gone. Lear expresses this poetically, in the moment. Maybe that's why the scene is so moving: because it acts out a crisis we often fight in order to will ourselves sane.

"Sanity", of course, is hard to define and certainly raises debate. As R.D. Laing goes on to say (in his preface to The Divided Self): "A man who says he has lost his soul is mad. A man who says that men are machines may be a great scientist." In Kafka's The Trial, is the world crazed or the man? Drusilla can be wild and garbled, yet has a brain of extraordinary power. And Vincent Van Gogh, while locked away, produced art of such perception I can hardly get near it for crowds.

It's safe to say that we, as artists, are interested by how others view the world. That's why I'm moved when I see minds treated with dignity. Mad, often, is a crazy kind of word.

--

*LEAR: Howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones!
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack! She's gone for ever.
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives...

Vincent Van Gogh's Ravine

Out of Our Heads

Neil Gaiman, on how he answers the question "Where do you get your ideas?":

"In the beginning, I used to tell people the not very funny answers, the flip ones: 'From the Idea-of-the-Month Club,' I'd say, or 'From a little ideas shop in Bognor Regis,' 'From a dusty old book full of ideas in my basement,' or even 'From Pete Atkins.' (The last is slightly esoteric, and may need a little explanation. Pete Atkins is a screenwriter and novelist friend of mine, and we decided a while ago that when asked, I would say that I got them from him, and he'd say he got them from me. It seemed to make sense at the time.)

Then I got tired of the not very funny answers, and these days I tell people the truth:

'I make them up,' I tell them. 'Out of my head.'"

Find the full article at neilgaiman.com.

Of all the questions we're asked as writers, this must be one of the hardest. I'll be frank: I have no idea where my ideas come from. Do you? Does anyone? Maybe it's possible to track your ideas and guess at their origins; but would that wreck the magic of our creative minds? I mean, the nature of ideas is a deep, philosophical topic. We could get into existential or religious debate, or look at neural psychology and theories of the mind. (Dear God, I remember when studying Psychology having to build a computer-model of a neural network. If neural net theories are to be accepted, it's dark in there and tangled).

Gaiman goes on to say:

"The Ideas aren't the hard bit. They're a small component of the whole. Creating believable people who do more or less what you tell them to is much harder. And hardest by far is the process of simply sitting down and putting one word after another to construct whatever it is you're trying to build: making it interesting, making it new."

Yes, well said. In fact, Gaiman's words lead me to question what, exactly, we'd like to be asked. Perhaps you've felt as I have: You're standing at a party, glass in hand, and someone says "So... you're a writer?" You nod enthusiastically. Then it's usually, "Should I have heard of you?" Or "Have you got a book out?" Or "What sort of stuff do you write?" Well, if you have a good answer to any of those, you're doing darn well. Truth is, it's hard to talk about writing with someone who doesn't do it. If people ask about teaching, there are a zillion interesting questions. But writing? Well, you sit at a desk and use the grey matter. The process is intriguing -- but it can be hard to describe.

So, here are some questions I actually like to be asked: Which writers have inspired you? Do you think books are important? Is publication the be-all-and-end-all? When you write, do you write about yourself? Can writing be political? Can writing change our world?

Pass me another glass of wine and maybe ask me a few of those. I tell you, baby, we could be there all night!

The Writer, The Lovers, and The Houseboat

Lying on the bed, body to body.

Now and then a boat passes, stirs the river; the water heaves and our boat sways. The big wooden beams crack a bit; the tree that binds it to the shore with chains cracks, sighs, laments. And it is like being on the sea, like sailing. Gonzalo awoke during the night and murmured, "Estamos navigando." We lay enchanted, ensorcelled, lulled, half-sleeping, drugged.

"I want to keep you here, chiquita."

"I want to stay here..."

From Fire: A Journal of Love, by Anais Nin (p. 309)

In Jungian dream analysis certain rooms can relate to aspects of the personality. The bedroom: the sexual aspect. The attic: the higher self. The basement: the unconscious. And so on. It only takes a passage like the one above to remind us that we often become our environments; that reading the external world with biased vision can blend what surrounds us with what lies within.

The wonder of Anais' personification when writing of the boat, which "sighs, laments..." gives the vessel a lover's personality; and it seems that when Anais and Gonzalo touch, the vessel becomes a part of them, imbued with their sensations. And wow, the symbol of the chain that holds the boat, literally stopping them from drifting away, beautifully embodies their desire.

Where we place our characters can helps us to reveal. Does their environment shape them? Or do they act on this world? Do they spread into their surroundings, or does the setting hem them in? The houseboat above could be seen as unsettling -- a slim, tender leash, and choppy waters -- yet the looseness seems a part of what binds the lovers, and the rocking boat implies their harmony, their rhythms.

Perhaps the wonder of Anais' description is in part because it's so emotive. We are awash in her feelings: truly shown, not told.

P.S. The above passage also reminds me of Aristophanes' The Wasps, though here the ancient playwright's point is political:

"If you want to be comfy, just roll with the ship!
Don't stand like a fool with a stiff upper lip,
But learn from Theramenes, that shrewd politician,
to move with the times and improve your position..."

Now there's a character adapting to their environment!

Ugly World

"Because what you're aiming for here is to rediscover that inconsolably ugly little kid inside you, because that's what triggers the beauty jones."

Steve Almond, from Pretty Authors Make Graves: an essay on writing and writers in Not that You Asked.

I am fascinated by ugliness. When I was really tiny, I was sometimes called pretty. All those crooning ladies at church: Oh isn't your daughter adorable! That sort of thing. Then at about eleven, dear God, I looked dreadful. It was mostly the acne that did it. I got used to being the ugly girl. This only lasted a few years; but once you've felt ugly, it's harder to think you're not.

Of course, as humans we love a transformation. Fanny Price in Mansfield Park who goes from plain to pretty; Beauty and The Beast; The Ugly Duckling. Not to mention all those eighties' movies in which the dowdy girl removes her glasses, is suitably mascaraed, and is suddenly to-die-for. But for me, the real power comes when the beholder's eye changes. In V for Vendetta, for instance, when Evey touches the ugly mask her lover wears, we, like her, learn to accept his trueness. Also in Buffy, when Angel's face is at its monstrous worst, yet Buffy kisses him without even noticing -- moving stuff.

Certainly my current obsession with monsters stems from a love of ugliness. It's great to put a monster in the real world, where they're vulnerable and ashamed, and understand their suffering, accept who they are... Those perceived as less than pretty are often stronger, deeper, truer. So why are the superheroes so often beautiful? And why are Ian Fleming's baddies so scarred, yet so weak? There are exceptions, but not a whole load. Pretty-pretty-pretty is often the hero's way. We've work to do, people. Let's make a change.

Steve Almond's quote (see above) is certainly a goody. He goes on to say that writing is lonely and dogged: "You sit there. You push your characters around. And when you, or they, feel ugly enough, have felt ugly enough for long enough, a little thrush of beauty unfurls to rescue both of you. Then it disappears." Oh, so true. By writing monsters to try and inspire, I make my inner ugliness easier to take. And that's real yearning. Oh, it's deep. I can only hope it triggers "the beauty jones"!

Read Steve's essay in Not that You Asked. It's brilliant, witty, beautiful.

You Talk Too Much

Mia: It was a show about a team of female secret agents called "Fox Force Five".

Vincent: What?

Mia: "Fox Force Five." Fox, as in we're a bunch of foxy chicks. Force, as in we're a force to be reckoned with. Five, as in there's one..two..three..four..five of us. There was a blonde one, Sommerset O'Neal from that show "Baton Rouge," she was the leader. A Japanese one, a black one, a French one and a brunette one, me. We all had special skills. Sommerset had a photographic memory, the Japanese fox was a king fu master, the black girl was a demolition expert, the French fox' specialty was sex...

Vincent: What was your specialty?

Mia: Knives.

From the screenplay of Pulp Fiction, written and directed by Quentin Tarrantino

I love it when characters talk, talk, talk. The trait, of course, feels natural on Mia. If you've ever seen "Pulp Fiction", you'll know Mia's evening with Vincent swings between over-talking and talking far too little! They even discuss an "awkward silence" just after it's happened. What I love about Tarrantino's dialogue is the way it's allowed to roam without becoming loose. Of course I want to know about "Fox Force Five". It lets me into Mia, it's strangely fascinating, and all those visuals land like candy in the head. And how slickly this monologue's written! How direct the strokes! Plus the momentum slays me, it's so strong. Not plot-driven, either -- this is all about character.

I recently wrote a story in which the protagonist has no voice, though he finds a way of expressing himself non-verbally. For me, as a writer, this was deeply rewarding. I thought it might be difficult to work with a silent character, but all it confirmed was that expression doesn't have to be verbal. So much of what we say is in gesture and instinct. Just the movement of a finger can communicate so much.

Of course, there are many silent characters in fiction (do you remember Jane Campion's The Piano? Powerful stuff). They serve to remind us that voice is many things: not simply words shooting from a mouth. My work with autistic students confirmed this for me: it is possible to find speaking very difficult, so sentences are hardly possible, yet the hand can paint a picture of immeasurable power: Lady Macbeth with blood on her hands and horror in her eyes; The pigs in Orwell's "Animal Farm", rising on two legs.

As writers, what we do is often perceived as silent. I've been asked how I cope with the quiet. Funny: it isn't like that -- at least, not for me. There are so many voices. And writing makes me stronger; more willing to verbalise, express what I feel.

The Beloved Boots of My Old Master, Pim

I have an audio story up at Narrative. It's free to subscribe. You can find my piece in the "Narrative Outloud" section. Thanks, all!

To Blog or Not To Blog

I've been writing this blog regularly for over a year; and what a year it's been. I've changed so much as both a person and a writer that looking back feels strange. Blogging about the writing process is deeply rewarding. It makes me more aware of myself, reinforces my identity, and seems to enable more courage in my work. There are times, these days, when the process of writing (rather than its outcome) holds me captive; and in part, that's thanks to you -- I feel like we're conversing and, if you read regularly, there are parts of me you know better than my close non-writing friends.

If it weren't for this blog: I might never have bought a cerise wig and wandered around Boston; I'd be more obsessed with career and less intrigued by process; I'd certainly have felt more alone and wouldn't have thought so much; you help me to reflect more, to be more in-tune. I blogged recently about writing as an active construction (scroll down to see "My Pen and I"). Well, I've often written myself into patience or confidence -- a different sort of writing to storytelling, for sure.

So thank you. Truly. It's great that you're there.

But listen. If you feel like dropping me a line (or indeed commenting... though you're all as shy as I am, perhaps) I'd certainly be grateful. If you're a friend with whom I talk about this blog, then I'm aware of you already, but if I'm not aware of you, might you let me know? I'm trying to work out on several levels where to go next, what to aim at, how to spend my time. What do you feel about Wet Ink? How often do you read? Is there anything else you'd like to see? If the posts weren't so frequent, would this make a difference?

You can find my email address to the right, in "About Sue".

Quote For Tonight

"Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about? And the equally big answer: Anything you damn well want. Anything at all... as long as you tell the truth."

From Stephen King's On Writing, p. 153

Tomorrow, (Saturday), I'm going to be sitting in Central Square scribing stories by hand with one of my writing friends. This means I won't be blogging until late Saturday or Sunday, but when I'm back I'll no doubt be inspired...

My Pen and I

"My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course." Graham Greene

I enjoy a keyboard. Being a touch-typist, I type more quickly than I write and this enables my flow. But I remember hearing Joyce Carol Oates on a Writers on Writing podcast saying she found the typewriter too impersonal by far, and I know many writers feel the same. Actually, when stuck I often turn to pen-and-paper: the change can make a difference by tapping me afresh.

As you may know, I once did a dissertation on Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle (1623-73). It was great to find facsimiles of her handwritten edits and see what she had chosen to remove or change. I realised this woman was big on suggestion. Trying to find voice when woman's expression was seen as a sin, the implied level was a winner for her. I knew this, from her work, but the edits helped me explore it more keenly. We're lucky computers didn't exist back then! The handwritten drafts were a gift.

Of course, there's more to our choice of medium than the traces it leaves. In a fascinating article, (see ref. below) Daniel Chandler suggests our favoured instrument will fit our writing personality. If we tend to be a "Planner", he argues, we already have our work clear in our minds and are mainly using the tool to spill it onto the page. However, if we tend to be "Discoverers", the creativity arises from the act: a kind of alchemy, perhaps. In terms of Chandler's system, (a construct, of course) I myself am a Planner: I see my story very clearly in my head and the writing process is just an outpouring. For this reason, something fast and direct enables me more. Not the case, maybe, if you tend to be a Discoverer? Is the pen better? Does it allow for greater chemistry?

There are other factors, as Chandler relates, including mood. I used to keep a dream diary, was totally committed, and I'd write every morning once I'd woken up. I couldn't have scribed that diary in anything other than pen. It was personal, and yes... I wrote myself into remembering. The physical act of writing was vital to the outcome; so I guess, in terms of that diary, I became a Discoverer.

Whatever words or typology we use to explore it, the truth is we each find a way. And hell, this afternoon I'll be sitting outside with a pen and paper. Here's why. For starters, I'm going to try and cut down on the internet (sheesh, it can drain me if I let it!); and secondly, I've got myself intrigued...

The Phenomenology of Writing By Hand, by Daniel Chandler, published on the internet, here. Original reference: Intelligent Tutoring Media 3(2/3):65-74

Love That Book

I was traveling on the subway the other day when I noticed a guy reading Tipping the Velvet.  Sarah Waters being a favourite writer, I was itching to say, "I love that book," but his attention was so rapt and he was page-turning like crazy and how could I interrupt such a flow?  So I bit my lip and left the guy in silence.  Difficult to do, but I'm glad.  After all, why talk with me on the T, when you could be in the Victorian music hall, or watching Nance the oyster girl working her blade?

At The Muse and The Marketplace  a couple of years back, I attended a seminar with author Martha Southgate. The session itself was on books that have inspired us and how we can use these to stretch ourselves as writers.  Martha's choice of book was The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay , by Michael Chabon.  She explained how, recently, she'd seen someone reading it and had gotten excited: she didn't know the reader (I believe they were in a public place) yet the sight of them with that book thrilled her.

Here's my take:  For us book fans, it can be exciting to share.  In life, it's sometimes possible to have had similar experiences - to have lost someone, danced the salsa, visited Crete etc. - but in books the immersion can be so darn total that, if you meet with someone who also knows the story, then you've shared something significant, which can make for quite a connection. 

I'm not a member of a book group, as I think I've said before.  Truth is, I prefer reading to my own schedule (unless I'm taking a course at the time).  Having said that, I talk about books a lot.  In fact, nothing breaks my shyness like such a conversation.  And have you noticed that, the more you chat in this way, the more strangers do the same to you?  Do we give off a vibe or something?  Or do we simply look like readers?  I like to think it's happening all around -- everyone chats about stories.  Books not bombs, right? 

But I'm lucky: I live where there are loads of books and folks who read them.  I wish we all had that.  Fortunately, reading a book can be company all in itself.  I'm sure there are those of you out there who are private, and proud.