We're not so different after all, us writers

This post has taken sooo long to write. It's been over a week since I finished reading The Emerging Writer and, though it contains enough writing about writing, I felt compelled to write something about this book of writing about writing. 

Because the book, as well as the Emerging Writers Festival in Melbourne, was informative inspiring and articulated so many senses of thoughts I felt like I'd had.
So I've been pondering, jotting down thoughts and flicking back through the between other commitments: the full-time job, half-marathon training, yoga, socialising, eating, sleeping, tweeting ... life is hard for a hobby writer.

Oh, did I just call myself that?

Well there you go. I'm doing that now.

Sure, I have a communications job and I love being creative with words - when it's flowing, which can be the key to, or a distraction from, productivity depending on whether I'm at work or not. But I've always been loathe to call myself a 'writer' or even tell people I write stuff other than the work content they don't care about or the social workday emails they're subjected to. What if they want to read something? I'm not as good as I want to be yet!

I don't even really promote this blog among my friends (as in, people I know - 'tweeps' are different). There's just a lonely little link on my Facebook 'About' page for those who are interested enough to find it.

So when can one call themself a writer? When they speak like they're writing a period play or know whether to use 'themself' or 'themselves' (still gets me)? It doesn't require a qualification or a paying job; there are sub-categorical, official titles for those roles - journalist, novellist, public relations specialist, bullshit artist. You're a writer - whether you choose to write for fun, fulfillment and/or funding - when you believe you are and do something with your passion for words.

I run - I'm a runner (not an athlete); I do yoga - I'm a yogi; I tweet - I'm a tweeter; I drink - I'm a drinker (not an alcoholic [and that's not denial]). I write - I'm a writer. It doesn't matter whether you write stories, articles, plays, haikus, blog posts, letters, toilet wall commentary, whatever. Artists are the last people who should be drawing restrictive boundaries around who is and isn't a writer, and the rest wouldn't know anyway.

The book discusses all of this, so I digress.

The festival and book were amazing antidotes to my self-doubt. I realised just how much other writers (man I love using that word inclusively!) experience, or have conquered, the same uncertainties. Just the fact that other people I absolutely consider writers had trouble calling themselves writers helped me get past my hesitation. It's a big, important step too, because it means you believe in what you're doing and just get on with it. As Alan Bissett contributes: "An ego bereft of self-criticism becomes mere vanity. But if you're not sure you can actually do it then, quite simply, you won't"

As well the tips, information and entertainment value, the whole experience was somewhat cathartic, almost like a group therapy session. I came away rejuvenated and energised about writing and it's possibilities for me. 
Sadly the festival only lasts ten days or so and uncertainty stumbles back in the door eventually. So thank god for The Emerging Writer. It not only reaffirmed the possibilities instilled by various events, but fleshed out some of the issues in more depth and offered a greater range of voices than I'd been able to see at the festival. And, most importantly, it's now on my shelf for returning reference and affirmation.

So many thoughts about writing that I hadn't been able to articulate; so many doubts and difficulties I'd experienced but not really discussed; so many questions I had about how others write but didn't have the network to ask... the book nailed it all.

Words are strange. They seem instinctive, but they're not - they're learned. How we experience life internally is unavoidably somewhat different to how we express ourselves. We feel and sense and attempt to convey that in words. Some of us are better than others at it. Yet we continue to rely on people's statements as perfect summaries of their thoughts and feelings. We never get it exactly right, but that's where body language and other context helps.

Throw in a little pressure and the impatience to blurt something out, and extract a little context, and you see why tabloid journalism has ruined considered political discussion. We under-appreciate and oversimplify the complexity of self expression through words.

I feel like I can never find my words. I need time to think and let go of the anxiety over not being able to find my words. I'd be crucified as a politician. And may I never defend them as a group again.

But words are critical. Leah Gerber discusses translators in The Emerging Writer. I'd say all writers are translators - English is our second internal language. Writers explore and seek to make sense of the complex human experience through that powerful, but restricted, human constuct called language.
Most writers seem to have a love of music. Music is the international language, at its best a raw expression of these feelings that often transcends words. Sometimes it works better than words. That's why lyrics can be so simple, obscure, unintelligible or unnecessary. Sometimes it resonates in ways we can't articulate. But a writer's job is to try and translate those feelings, senses and experiences into words, to enhance human connection. Language is all about connection.

The Emerging Writer reassured me that I'm not the only one who agonises over the process of turning a notion, a sense, a feeling or an abstract idea into worthy text. I feel like I have some fantastic ideas, but still so often worry I ruin their meaning as I attempt to put them into words. After years and years of doing it, I'm still learning. Still finding my voice.

A few things were reiterated time and time again at the festival and in the book. Firstly, if you want to get good, write often - every day. I stopped writing for enjoyment for a long time, thinking I'd pick it back up when I felt I could do my aspirations justice, when anxiety wasn't a roadblock anymore. That wasn't going to happen entirely, so - at the insistence of a friend - I started blogging.
Secondly - don't tell, show. It's a writing mantra - one for living too, in my opinion - and the one I'm working on getting better at (in writing and living). It's crucial, but it's more than that. Don't make the reader aware with impressive words, find the right words to make them feel. As unfathomable as it may be to aspiring artists, being pretentious doesn't resonate with anyone. Except the wankiest, untalented arts student.
Then there's the ever-present battle to translate free flowing imaginative, creative thought into meaningful words. Why is it I get the most ideas when I'm in a yoga class or running the Tan, with no ability to note them down - the more I try and imprint an idea or sentence in my mind the more I struggle to remember it and when I sit down to write the pressure to do so blocks the flow. Maybe they weren't properly formed arrangements words anyway.

My favourite thought from my favourite contribution to the book, come from Esther Anatolitis:

"Writing is not about making words form neat sentences, tight paragraphs, concise verse and complete texts. Writing is about making meaningful connections between ideas as they develop, harnessing what's linguistic about them and crafting this across the page."
So that's that. Another post done. Now I'll enjoy the feeling of accomplishment and get back to my work, before being consumed by the next idea (or thinking about how I could have written this better).

Hell, maybe I'll even pitch to The Emerging Writer next year.

The Psychopath Test

I knew before reading The Psychopath Test that I wasn’t one.

Actually I’m practically an anti-psychopath. I saw author, Jon Ronson speaking at the Wheeler Centre before I read the book. Firstly he said that if you’re worried about being a psychopath, then you’re not one. It wasn’t something that particularly worried me, especially the more I read about it, but the question did cross my mind. The more pertinent comment for me was the one I was tempted to have him write inside the cover of the copy I bought 20 minutes later - “anxiety disorder is indicative of moral goodness … OCD sufferers are good people”.

In the seven years since I was diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder it was the first time they actually felt like badges of honour!

Where psychopaths apparently have stunted emotional response or connection – most importantly when it comes to empathy – thanks to an impaired amygdala, I have it in spades!

I’m constantly, at times obsessively, concerned with other people’s thoughts, feelings and perceptions. Although its important to note the difference between empathy and the need for personal validation; my anxiety has been driven by both. It's the anxiety about other people’s feelings that often has me avoiding confrontation and holding me back from potential romantic dalliances where the other person may want more out of it than I do and I'd eventually hurt them. How pathetic!

So, like Ronson, it’s fair to assume my amygdala works in overdrive, the engine of much of my anxiety. The good news is that it seems it’s easier to shift an over-active amygdala closer to normal than one than activate an impaired one. ‘Possible’ might be a better word than ‘easier’. The book has some fascinating tales of ill-fated attempts to cure psychopaths.
While it had me reflecting somewhat on my own psychology and starting to make unqualified judgements about those around me, the book’s greater effect was scaring the pants off me by shifting the way I view the society.

One in every hundred people qualify as psychopathic. Mostly they are not physically dangerous. The really interesting thing is though, that we have seem to have created an economic model that provide just the environment for non-violent psychopaths to thrive, one that seeks out and rewards their ruthless nature. It seems psychopaths are great to bring in when a company needs someone to make the ‘tough’ decisions.

It would be easy and fun to label several politicians, business leaders and disgustingly prominent political and social commentators, especially given the current toxicity of public debate while people suicide in detention centres, our environment suffers, people sleep out on the streets, etc, etc, but as Ronson gracefully did on QandA when asked about one of our political leaders (the wrong one anyway, I thought), I shall refrain.

The whole thing actually triggered my irrational anxiety to spark up with a bunch of concerns as the book shone a new light on our society. There are psychopaths – many thousands of them – legitimately driving on the roads (a particularly scary thought for a new cyclist), they do hold positions of political influence and power, they work for pharmaceutical companies, and in America (where I'm headed shortly) they legally carry guns for 'protection'. But I've been to America twice before and know I can feel pretty safe.

Thing is, I've generally clutched on this naive, idealistic thought that with all but the least sane people you can reason with them and help them feel things from a different perspective (empathise) if you engage them in the right way. But it seems that's just not the case with a lot – a LOT – of people. And there is no cure. So if some of these people are destined to wreak havoc on people's lives in whatever way, what do you do? Lock them up for good once you have a diagnosis? Even if they've yet to do anything wrong? And what if they're behaving legally, they're just an arsehole for reasons that you could contend are beyond their control? Hmmm. Can't do that, obviously.

I couldn't help but be saddened by the thought of an existence that was so emotionally stunted (look, I'm empathising!). To me, emotional connection with other humans is one of the things that makes life so beautiful, meaningful and worthwhile and it's through empathy in particular that we reach out and actually make that connection. How do you enjoy shared experiences without empathy? How do you truly love?

Of course, there are degrees of psychopathy, and not all psychopaths are inherently dangerous people, indeed the majority probably aren’t. And while 1-in-100 is a lot of psychopaths, that still leaves 99 non-psychopaths for every one of them. As sad as it is for someone to be born with a dodgy amygdala, we can surely overpower them when it comes to fucking with our world. We just have to ensure that our own self-indulgent and selfish desires don’t create a culture that allows us to step back and reap rewards from letting - indeed encouraging - people like Al Dunlap (featured in the book) to run amok in the corporate world just because it's good for share prices, while we wash our hands just a step or two back. That's our responsibility as the 99 per cent non-psychopaths - now go out and be a good world citizen!
 

So … do I have at least some psychopathic tendencies? Let’s take the test!

1. Glib and Superficial Charm - I don't know how to be charming well enough to fake it. No.

2. Grandiose Self-Worth - well I am  writing a public blog and scoring my myself here, hoping it's of interest to people that might read. Perhaps not 'grandiose' but I am a quiet attention junkie. No.

3. Need for Stimulation or Proneness to Boredom - Absolutely. I'm already bored with this test.

4. Pathological Lying - well either way I'm going to say 'no'. You'll just have to trust me or judge for yourself on that one.

5. Cunning and Manipulativeness - We all engage in some (at least passive) manipulation of others, but not to the psychopath level. No

6. Lack of Remorse or Guilt - It depends what I've done and how much of an arsehole the person is. 'Occasional misplaced passion' perhaps, but not 'lack of remorse or guilt'.

7. Shallow Affect - uh-uh. I find emotional connection between to be of critical importance in life; I love deep and meaningful conversations over a beer, though usually I'll talk mostly about myself ...
8. Callousness and Lack of Empathy - again, not blowing smoke up my arse by completely ruling this out. If anything, I could be a little more callous, obsess a little less about what others thoughts and feelings might be.

9. Parasitic Lifestyle - I don't intentionally have an 'exploitative financial dependence' ... but do have a reasonable parental debt, payback of which sits on the back burner while I do some more travel...

10. Poor Behavioral Controls - nope. Once more, often too nice if anything. Paradoxically, The Shins may have been correct in their song Caring is Creepy. Just ask my ex.

11. Promiscuous Sexual Behavior - bahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaha. Yeah, no. If only.

12. Early Behavior Problems - the worst thing I did before I was 13 was steal porn ... from my brother.
13. Lack of Realistic, Long-Term Goals - hmmmm, maybe. We'll see.

14. Impulsivity - Hell no, even my reckless behaviour is thought through.

15. Irresponsibility - sometimes, but it wasn't my fault.

16. Failure to Accept Responsibility for Own Actions  - Would anyone ever own up to this one? Maybe at a relatively low level on occasion. Nobodies perfect, but I accept it's shit behaviour. 

17. Many Short-Term Marital Relationships - I'll be happy to marry once, if that doesn't work out I won't be holding out to be lucky enough for a second shot! A six-year relationship and no relationships lasting mere weeks (that I was aware of at the time anyway) has to rule me out of this one.

18. Juvenile Delinquency - Nothing illegal. Well no more than any other kid. Though the high school years were shared with a group guys sharing my lack of popularity and disinterest in it, engaged in our own shadowy mischeif and (sometimes political) railing against the trends of the masses.

19. Revocation of Condition Release - Yet to have the opportunity!

20. Criminal Versatility - I'd like to think that if I were a criminal, I'd at least be versatile.

So my score has got to be somewhere between 0 and 4 (For each item: 0 if it does not apply, 1 if it applies partially and 2 if it is a perfect match). In conclusion, I am awesome.

Obviously, just like a diagnosis of psychopathy itself, most of those items are subjective and vary in degree for different individuals, it's not necessarily as easy as just 'yes' or 'no'. It's interesting to reading in the book how it (I think the actual test is a bit longer) is used in diagnosing certain individuals.

Still, I may be many things, but I'm satisfied that I'm far from a psychopath. I'm more concerned about the diagnosis of modern society and, in particular, our economic system.

As Ronson reassures the reader, if you're worried you may be one, you're probably not. But maybe have a friendly chat to somebody anyway...

Fascinating and fantastic book.

The usual mental health links follow, and a fascinating blog I found about Raising a Psychopath.

Black Dog Institute
beyond blue
LifeLine
GLCCS

And: Jon Ronson at the Wheeler Centre. 

On the Road - Jack Kerouac

I picked up a copy of On the Road in mid-2007 in the lead up to my first trip to North America. It was a significant journey – I was newly single after a five year relationship, was heading overseas for the first time (if you don’t count New Zealand, which I choose not to) and, while meeting up with family and friends along the way, I was largely making my own way around the great continent.

The legendary story and it’s mad, majestic protagonist, Dean Moriarty, were familiar to me through knowledgable friends and I thought it would be the perfect read for the time. Even as I struggled through, I conned myself into buying the sell – the maniacal adventure with no obvious plot, just rambling ‘spontaneous prose’ that seemed to go everywhere but nowhere in particular. The proof of my struggle was in the fact I didn’t finish. In a way I wish I had, as it was a timely read for me, but on the other hand I just wasn’t in the right head space. At that time I couldn’t find the relaxed focus required to deal with Kerouac’s style; it was too great a challenge for my racing, anxious mind. Even if I had finished, I wouldn’t have gotten much more out of it. I was just reading words to get them read and move onto the next thing. I was always looking to the next moment in those days, not allowing myself – or perhaps able – to revel in the moment.

And now it seems to me that this is just what the book is all about - living in the moment.

So I’m glad I didn’t finish it four years ago because I may never have come back to it. I returned to it as part of a current effort to read more, including ‘classics’, and it was sitting there on my shelf begging to be completed. I couldn’t even remember how far I made it through last time; not that I seriously considered continuing from that point. Well maybe momentarily as the devil on my right shoulder (surely it sits on the right) spruiked the short cut.

Four years on I am a different person – ‘rewired’ and more relaxed – and in a particularly interesting, if terrifically uncertain, phase of life. Things are changing in and around me; living in the moment has become a goal and mantra. So it turned out that this was the ideal time to tap into the spirit embodied by On the Road.

I quickly fell in love with the book this time.

After my struggle with Ulysses I was a little reluctant to jump into another classic novel. In other words, I felt I needed something light. Yet, while neither book contain simple, straightforward prose, Joyce seems to delight in complex, intricately constructed writing for the sake of it, to the point where the style overbears the story and comes across to a relatively unsophisticated reader like myself as somewhat pretentious. Kerouac’s often breathless narrative (the original manuscript of which was written in a ‘non-stop three week burst’) on the other hand, hit upon an attitude to life that resonated deeply.

And it’s nothing to do with the geographical adventure – the road itself is really just a means to the end. The novel captures the excitement, restlessness and beauty of the moment; no looking back, no time to pause and reflect, just dig and move on to the next thing. But you must dig. Don’t just choose life, dig life. Respect others, but fuck their expectations of you. This is your one shot at life, we’re all going to die so why waste time being caught up in what’s passed by or social norms that seek to dictate to you where happiness resides. Find it in and for yourself.

My love of this book is summed up neatly in this, probably my favourite passage:

“But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across stars and in the middle you see the blue centrelight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’ "

Like narrator, Sal Paradise, I am generally the one chasing the madness more so than exuding it. I’m the one looking for, and basking in the glorious influence of, the Dean Moriarty’s.

And they do come along. People that burst into your life like a firecracker in the dark sky, their sparkling influence reaching far into all aspects of your being, and eventually they often fade and fall away – but tiny particles of their presence land scattered about and remain always, hidden but going nowhere. I’ve known them.

I might come back to and enjoy Ulysses someday the way I did with On the Road. I have my doubts though. I can’t see it ever having the same impact. Ulysses is sophisticated and intellectual, but On the Road is for the everyman, the Dean Moriarty that lives somewhere in all of us, as it did in Sal Paradise, waiting to ignite the spark of life. The only reason for the comparison here is that they are the most recent two books I’ve read (this is my blog after all and I can do what I want), but they are not entirely dissimilar in style. When it boils down to it though, I just couldn’t understand what Ulysses was on about so the exercise, for me, was somewhat pointless.

But man did I dig On the Road!

Reading Ulysses - Yobbo or Wanker?

"You're a yob, or you're wanker, make your fuckin' choice
So who is your favourite genius: James Hird or James Joyce?"

- 'What Are Ya?', TISM'


This song was my first exposure to the giant name of literature that is James Joyce. I am a lifelong Essendon fan so clearly my favourite genius was James Hird. Making me a yobbo. But, really I always thought I fit better in the wanker category (only if choosing between the two!).

I'd probably heard of Ulysses, but I knew little about it - or Joyce - until a few months ago. This was my blessing (naivety) and my curse (as someone who studied Literature briefly in University, somewhat of a blight on my cred).

Having decided to read a lot more this year than last, when I read a LOT more than 2009, I've been keeping an eye out for good reads, and in my 'research', stumbled on this blog post from Grog's Gamut. I subsequently added a few to my list, and for some reason thought it a good idea to start with Ulysses.

Firstly, do not borrow this book from a library unless you have a stack of free days, being about 1000 pages long. It's a tough read - the last chapter, with four sentences in its 80 pages, almost suffocated me as I stood in front of the mirror reciting it aloud. I renewed it once, returned it late and was under constant pressure to keep to deadline. That had positive and negative affects.

Most importantly, it meant I actually kept at it - I was determined to finish, but could have easily given it a miss a couple of times and ended up never coming back. It also affected the way I read. Historically I have read very carefully, slowly and methodically. This stems from my OCD when I re-read sentences over and over to be sure of the content, and I'm trying to shake the remnants of these habits.

Reading a massive book like Ulysses forced me to keep moving at a steady pace and not stop too much to assure myself of any sentences or situations that I didn't feel I explicitly understood, because frankly, I didn't understand much of what was going on and I would have probably wasted time mulling over the things that I was able to figure out and probably already had subconsciously.

If I had have read at a pace where I made sure I understood everything that was going on I think it would have taken me 6 months, instead of 6 weeks, to read. That said, with a little more time I could have contemplated things a bit more as I went in a constructive way, when, in actual fact, I feel like I rushed it, especially towards the exhausting end.

Ulysses is 1000 pages of dense, sophisticated writing. There's no doubt Joyce is a clever, highly talented writer. But most of it went over my head. I'd need to have studied it at Uni in a class setting to have fully appreciated it. And I did read chapter notes on Wikipedia as I went, in order to keep up - two or three sentences that neatly summed up 80 or so pages.

At about page 900 I thought 'Hey, I'm following this! I know what's going on! I both get it and enjoy it!' Then, about 20 pages later, I lost it.

Is its complexity and potential pretentiousness what makes it great? That it is difficult to comprehend? That it can elevate those who understand and appreciate it (and those who pretend to) to a cultural elitism? (I should note, I'm not putting all Joyce lovers in the derogatory 'elite' category, especially not my dear friend who is studying Joyce for her thesis :o) )

Do you judge something on its complexity or its ability to connect with the audience, its timelessness and its strength of content? Simple writing can achieve these criteria just as well, but I'll admit that something layered and complex, when comprehended, can have more impact when you have the 'lightbulb moment' and you feel that you 'created' the message in a way through your achieved understanding. Or it can have less. I'm not sure it matters, use the simplicity/complexity tool as appropriate. If Joyce achieved the work he wanted then no, he shouldn't dumb it down to broaden its appeal. Formulaic and mass-produced is the enemy of art, not simplicity.

What does that mean for its stature? Not much really. All those questions do not intend to be as critical as they seem - of the book or those who love it. Given I didn't really understand the book, they are the kinds of questions I was left with, and I don't know the absolute answer to them. But that's what this - writing - is all about right?!
 
I can't say outright it's not the greatest novel ever written, but I've read many, and will no doubt read many more, that have had a greater impact on me. From a personal level that's really all that matters. And overall ranking of novels, as much as music, is a subjective, pointless exercise.

Maybe someday I'll read it again - when I'm feeling more capable.

Until then, I guess if my choice is Hird or Joyce, I'm a yobbo. But if we're discussing music, I'm probably, and proudly, a wanker. Most TISM fans probably are!

I trust the genius of Joyce is accessible to those with the right imagination, perception and energy ... and someday, when I've increased my verbal intelligence, have a little more time and patience, and James Hird has long-since been sacked (not before winning a couple of premierships for Essendon), I'll sit down and reconsider.

Happy Bloomsday :o)

PS. still taking book recommendations - mainly fiction, I can find my own non-fiction more easily.