GTA 4… and I still struggle with it everyday.
“The social-emotional part of the brain pushes people to obey seemingly universal moral rules, such as an edict against murder, while the reasoning part pushes them toward a utilitarian goal: the greatest good for the greatest number of people.”
[This is the first draft of the ninth part of my Master's thesis/book, Confession.
Comments and questions are always appreciated.]
I’ve noticed recently that many writers (historical and contemporary) seem to be at odds with psychiatric medicine and psychology. I have no hard evidence to back up my claim, but it seems the general feeling is that “brain medication” messes with a writer’s creative center and may even extinguish it completely. Not everyone can write about trees and stars, they say, what about inspiration?
Self-medication is fine, apparently, since many writers have literally drunk themselves to death. But monitored meds? How blasé. We have this idea about what “a writer” is, and receiving professional psychiatric or psychological care isn’t part of that idea. It’s as if the creativity will somehow run out or dry up and be gone forever if we do anything else with our brains.
Writers tend to be loners anyway, it’s true, and the act of writing itself may indicate not all is right in our heads. But at least the act is a constructive one, right? At least I’m writing on paper with a pen instead of on my arm with a knife, right?
That’s what I want to do, actually—and I’m going to be in school forever because of it—but I want to be a writing therapist. Not a physical therapist, mind you, but someone who helps people not kill themselves but their darlings instead. There’s a saying in the writing world: “Kill your darlings.” I’m told it means that a writer should be able to tear apart (“kill”) her work (“darlings”) in the name of “good writing” in an effort to learn and improve, but the whole things seems a bit sadomasochistic to me. Still, though, I’d rather have someone kill his darlings rather than himself. If it gets that bad, I want someone’s first internal reaction to be “Write about this!” instead of hanging herself or shooting up his school.
I’m sure some writers may write because they have something important to say or because they’re in love and life couldn’t be better. But in my experience, writing is more like a compulsion that temporarily quiets the torment within than like a spontaneous dance number in a 50s-era musical.
Even when I can’t do anything else because I’m depressed or neurotic or exhausted, I can write. That’s good, I suppose, that I have an outlet for my frustrations and a diversion from “real life” but I wonder. I wonder what will happen when I get well (and I will get well). Maybe the creativity does dry up when I don’t feel bad; who really knows? Emo kids have this down to an art. They dress in black and plaid and British flag patches and sit around feeling sorry for each other until crappy poetry is produced. The band Bright Eyes is the perfect example. That’s fine; live and let live, right?
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I have internalized the idea that poetry is easier to write than prose. I don’t intellectually believe this to be so, and I don’t think established poets like Billy Collins, Yousef Kummonyakka, Ai, and others have had an easy time of it creating their respective works (much less getting them published). Somehow, though, I don’t think that’s ever translated for me into something with which I can identify. The prevailing thought is that anyone can write poetry, but a person must be committed (and, perhaps, resigned to one’s fate) to write the next “great American novel.” Most poems are, after all, less than one page long each while novels are somewhere in the vicinity of 300 pages. And, if it’s a “great American novel,” it has to be good writing, to boot.
My roommate, Eddie, doesn’t understand why I see a psychotherapist once a week. To him, it’s a waste of money for something friends should do anyway for free. For a while, he told me every day that he was specifically not asking how my day went because I paid someone to do that for me. I didn’t know how to explain his prejudice to him, and though I was somewhat offended by his lack of tact, I wasn’t surprised by his feelings toward therapy.
I grew up in a home that accepted therapy as a sometimes-necessary solution for life’s problems, especially when serious thought had been given to one’s options aside from therapy. But what if my parents were more like most modern adults? We’ve got this idea in our heads that we should be able to succeed by ourselves without any outside help. Rag to riches, the American dream, and all that. Everyone wants to be like Rockfeller, Carnegie, and Ford, whether we realize it or not. They pulled themselves up by their bootstraps all by their lonesomes, dag-nab-it, and if we can’t do the same, then we’re not trying hard enough or we’re just not American!
What does all this have to do with writing, anyway? When someone asked me what I’ve been doing with my “time off” (as if that’s what graduate school is: time off) I used to say, “I’m writing a book.” Then, without fail, I’d get The Look and some comment like, “Oh, so you’ve been sleeping in and playing computer games, huh?”
I wasn’t taken seriously because book writing is some far-off mystical thing that only happens under the best conditions to some already-established genius. So, I learned to change my response to, “I’ve been working on my Masters thesis.” If I’m working on my thesis, after all, I’m a serious student, and not just “some wannabe writer.”
Writing may not be a sign of mental illness in many people—or even in most people—but it is in me and other writers I know. It is, in a way, a double stigma. Mental illnesses are clichéd… but if you’re a writer, too?
The condemnations never end.
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I am a writer in secret.
When I first saw the link for Big Ass Fans, I was… interested, in a way. Honestly, my mind went straight to the gutter and I thought, well, lots of guys like the bootylicious ladies, right? Who am I to say otherwise? But then I looked at the sight and discovered that it’s much more literal than I thought.
Actually, the website is for enormous fans (the kind that blow air), not for fans of ladies who’ve been blessed in the behind. These guys literally make HUGE fans (6-to-24 feet in diameter) and have sold them to airports, zoos, and other places that need airflow over large areas. Big Ass Fans has a sense of humor (their mascot is a donkey, after all) and they don’t mind admitting their genius (not) at work.
Even if you’re not in the market for a ginormous fan, check out their website to see how the fans work (and to see the donkey!).
[This is the first draft of the seventh part of my Master's thesis/book, Confession.
Comments and questions are always appreciated.]
These are all Lies
Rules are meant to be broken.
Everyone is born equal.
Google has all the answers.
All you need is love.
True love waits.
I’ve been pregnant and had an abortion.
Boys don’t cry.
A good feminist can have “it all”.
Being “born gay” is somehow better than being “turned” gay.
I am racially “colorblind”.
My parents neglected me.
My father beat me.
I am “damaged goods”.
Everyone thinks the way I do.
Everyone should think the way I do.
Because I said so.
I am a mystery.
“It’s God’s will.”
I have a terrible memory.
I have had schizophrenia-related hallucinations.
I beat up a guy in high school.
“Real” poetry has end-rhyme and meter.
Nightmares prevent me from having a stable romantic relationship.
Some people are just evil.
Fat = ugly.
I don’t know my own strength.
Gentlemen prefer blondes.
This I know for sure.
I never believe the lies I tell.
This will not end well.
1. Okay, so I think I’ve mentioned this before, but Joss Whedon is a genius. I like Buffy and Angel, and I’d probably like Firefly, too, if I ever saw it, but those aren’t why I think he’s awesome. It’s this.
2. I’ve been meaning to watch Senator Obama’s speech he gave in Philly that was apparently such a big deal to see what all the fuss was about… But I haven’t managed to come up with 30 minutes of time all in one place in which I’m mentally able to critically think about what he’s saying, so I’m posting the link here in the hopes that someone will be able to tell me if it’s actually worth watching.
3. F&M’s radio station, WFNM, is now online. The radio people finally convinced the school people that online is the way to go. Apparently, the school people were threatening to shut down the station if it didn’t attract more listeners, but weren’t allowing the radio to broadcast online because “it wouldn’t make that much of a difference.” Lame, but at least it’s fixed now for a little while since the station has an online trial period. Go and listen!
