My Brother

He made this.

http://eddierivers.bandcamp.com/track/teenage-angst

Produced it. Wrote it. Played it. Compiled it.

I miss creativity. I haven't felt it in months. I haven't felt that drive, the voices that whisper in my ear and push me to write, to create, to give life to characters that cheat and lie and cry and rejoice and live and love and laugh. That was me, at some point. Vincent is atrophying, dying, withering, fading, what have you. His voice is barely a whisper at this point, his image not even visible in the mirror. Creativity seems so far away...but this song brings me back to that lifestyle, almost. Almost.

We'll see if Vincent returns yet.

I (Don't) Remember II

"I remember never worrying about hurting others. I remember never being concerned with relationships, or how much to tell someone, or how to act, how to smile, how to laugh, how to wile away the hours in a way to make her feel wanted, loved, cherished. I remember preferring it that way. I remember enjoying the solitude, the independence, the freedom, the "I" that would never become a "we." I remember buying dinners and paying only for myself. I remember going to sleep with a bed all to myself. I remember drinking and not worrying about the consequences. I remember living for myself and writing without worrying how it affected someone else. I remember not feeling heartbreak. I remember not even knowing what that stabbing pain felt like. I remember being unable to empathize with those who missed someone important to them. I remember not knowing what it meant to love, and I remember being deeply unhappy as a result."

Part One

Pathonaut

The other day, I was wrestling with the question of why I seemed unable to write. I blamed it on a lack of emotion and inspiration--how can a summer camp move me to write? What dense emotions (and density is key, because if it is without weight then it is without importance) could it evoke? None, I knew. And this frustrated me, because I knew that so long as I was stuck in this emotional rut, nothing could budge my pen. I was Sisyphus, forever straining against a mighty boulder that, for all intents and purposes, did not, could not, and would never move.

I wracked my brain for the answer of how to move on. I knew the implications, of course: if I could not write unless I felt, then I was doomed to periods of crippling creative silence. Would I have to live alone, miserable, in order to create? It would be rather fitting, considering how I treat my own characters. But I don't think I'm headed down that path. Not anymore, at least.

I had the fortune of speaking to a student here, not too long ago. She's young and an aspiring writer, and what little she showed me reminded me of my own writing when I was younger (and, even, today). I started writing when I was about 11, but I was 13 when I started Prelude to Darkness. At the time, Vincent was the reservoir into which I poured all most rage, guilt, shame, pride, and conceit. He was also the scapegoat on whom I blamed my lust. This makes perfect sense, given my stage of development: I was an adolescent, dealing with these new feelings of lust while a cocktail of hormones swirled about my veins. To make sense of it all, I created Vincent. He was the lecherous teenager, not me! Once I got a bit older and realized that maybe sex isn't the worst and most iniquitous of all sins...Vincent changed, too. He stopped being a demon and instead became a writer. But, at the very outset of my creative career, one thing was certain: sexuality and emotions were inextricably tied to writing.

I suspect this is the case for most writers. Some, maybe the majority, start writing during adolescence, and so it makes sense that raw emotion is the fuel for our writing. The result can be catastrophic, as anyone who's read teenage fiction (or fan fiction, for that matter) can tell you. But, when done right, that kind of writing can lead to a very refined product, one that really connects with the reader. I think Writing is Art, and to me Art is Empathy. You need emotion to create that empathy.

But I'm not a teenager anymore. Emotions...aren't as extreme as they used to be. I can't rely on my hormones or mood swings or melancholia to fuel my writing. At least, not all the time. Sure, if I get dumped by a girlfriend and I'm miserable for days, I'll use the emotion to write. But that kind of self-destructive self-pity isn't sustainable, nor should it be. I need to divorce writing and emotions, or at least come to understand writing in a way distinct from emotion.

And that's what I'm setting out to do. I realize that I retain the same vocabulary whether I'm miserable or happy. I simply need to sit down and write. I know that literally every single writer in the history of writing (I make this claim in all seriousness), from the guys who scrawled on cave walls to the ones who have won Nobel Prizes in Literature, has said this, but I'm finally beginning to believe it: just write. Do that, and you will separate emotion from writing. And if you accomplish that, then you can write whenever you need. I won't need misery to write. I'll just need ideas.

If the beginning of my journey as a writer was to navigate my dreams and imagination, then the second part of my journey is to navigate my emotions. From Oneironaut to Pathonaut, I am charting these waters because I know that if I don't, I'll stay still. And water that only sits is water that only stagnates.

Lost At Sea

I'm going backward.

A few months ago, I was full of hope and inspiration. There seemed within me a creative well that would never run dry, one that promised to issue forth stories upon stories, all of them dark and beautiful, passionate and hopeless. I had achieved a long-term goal, one in which Vincent and Victor finally reconciled their differences and became One again. I was Vincere, the root of them both, writer and friend, loner and lover, simultaneously two, free from the tension that had so plagued their relationship.

And now? I don't think I've written a single short story since that invitation in which I welcomed all the world to follow my journey as a writer. Instead, I've...I've joined a program where I work with kids. I give back to the community. I'm surrounded by people who love me, and others who give me advice on my future (an MFA looks more and more likely); I sit with peers my age from across the country, we plan activities for younger, talented students, and I get paid for it. I'm in the LA sun every day, and it's one of the most relaxing and least fulfilling summers possible.

I haven't written anything I enjoy, and it seems to me that I'm caught in the grips not of Writer's Block but Emotional Block. I've been wracking my brain for ways to write without misery, to create without darkness, but I simply can't. I don't know how. Someone once told me, "You don't have to be miserable to write. I don't think you know that." And I agree with her. Maybe there is something fundamentally flawed within me, but I somehow never learned that lesson: it's okay to be happy.

And so where am I? Am I back to my teenage years, caught in the midst of an inescapable angst? I hope not. I like to think that the years have given me more self-awareness than that. Is it ennui? I'm not sure, because I seem to be making progress with my life. As an RA this summer, I can (hopefully) be a TA next summer. With a few more years' experience of teaching, maybe I can apply for an MFA in Creative Writing: Fiction. Then what? Well, teach for a bit, write for more, then eventually end up as a professor for creative writing at some small university. I like to believe that ennui is a bit less productive than whatever I'm doing now.

So what is it? An emotional, creative dry spell? A bout of self-pity when none is warranted? Peut-être. But all I know is that Vincent has put his pen aside, the ink has run dry, and the cursor on the screen watches me, blinks expectantly, waits patiently, and haunts me still. I feel a deep frustration with where I am right now, and I'm unsure how to proceed. "Just write," some may say. How to write, when no words seem fit? How can I write, when the darkness that once whispered beautiful truths in my ears has now fallen silent?

Of Ghosts and Other Friends

Ghosts have popped up in conversation pretty frequently these past few days.

I'm not particularly sure why. Ghosts aren't a popular topic of conversation, really. But, since I've been delving into my writing, my conversations have taken a turn for the...grim.

The first instance occurred when I was speaking to a lady friend of mine. It was one of those weekends where no one seemed happy, and she was having a rough time, for one reason or another. I told her how recently I've been somewhat unhappy, but we kept the conversation on her, mostly, and she told me how she's been relapsing with some poor eating habits. Her ghost haunts her still.

And then I was speaking to one of my brothers, and we started ragging on some ex girlfriends of ours. I told him something I've said before: if I think I have ghosts now, I can't wait until I'm 40. He mentioned to me that Stephen King had this analogy of ghosts as past regrets and memories--we haunt ourselves. I agreed, because I've always thought of ghosts not as strangers who haunt us, but rather our emotional attachment to people. I don't think I'm alone, here.

And so, of late, I've been thinking about ghosts. I've my own. I got together with an old friend from high school over my spring break, and he agreed that, for a 20 year old, I do seem to have "ghosts." I've always been hesitant and more than slightly embarrassed about this idea of me having ghosts or demons. I'm 20. What do I know of demons?

But, I think ghosts can fall into two categories: intellectual and emotional. I may not have gone to war, or been seriously injured, or lost a loved one, but I understand the concepts, and I've explored those themes in my writing. And any negative experiences that happen to me are refined and distilled in my thoughts. Ultimately, these concepts become intellectual demons: Vincent, for example (though I'll explain that relationship a bit more in detail soon).

Emotional ghosts can be those ex girlfriends. Emotional ghosts are the ones with faces. We all have ours. As I told my friend the other day (the one who had been having a rough weekend): everyone has their bullshit. And that's very much true.

But I also think that these ghosts of ours are...very comforting, in their own, twisted fashion. There's a poem that my school loves:

''Some questions cannot be answered.

They become familiar weights in the hand,

Round stones pulled from the pocket, unyielding and cool.''

I think these old questions are intellectual demons, but the concept applies to emotional ones as well: these ghosts of ours are companions. They have been there for so long, I would be shocked to realize that one had disappeared over the course of a few months, without my notice. And, as a writer, I use my ghosts for writing. I've been having something of a rough semester, but I've never written more poignantly than I am now. My ghosts are so strong, for me, that I can almost see them, and at times, I cannot sleep. I've lost weight. I smoke, occasionally. When it suits me.

But I also write. And these ghosts, as horrible as they can seem, are allowing me to develop myself intellectually and emotionally. And so they are familiar weights in my mind.

Vincent is one of my most cherished ghosts.

The emotional ghosts are the worst, I think, because of their persistence. Intellectual ones are abstract, and faceless--they are ideas, and ideas, no matter how horrible, are still just confined to the realm of thought. They can be temporarily dismissed by a distraction. But an emotional ghost? They are the weights in your pocket that can sink you, if you let them. Just ask Quentin Compson.

I'm worried, of course, that my ghosts will always be there. I think a large part of growing up is accepting these ghosts and letting them go. And I hope, naturally, that one day I will no longer need them. But I am also scared by that concept, because I cannot conceive of whom I would be without these round stones in my pocket. But I have a suspicion: I will be a man much lighter than his previous self.

Today, I learned the word "saudade" and realized with some small dismay that I understood the concept. But then I realized, with some satisfaction, that I did, in fact, understand the concept. And I thanked my ghosts for that.

Looking In The Mirror

For those of you who know me, you know that, since about 8th grade, I've been somewhat obsessed with the idea of two selves. It all began when I was about 13, in English class, when a harmless comment informed me of the existence of two halves in my mind (on the one hand, I was angry and sometimes felt violent [hormones, really], but I would never let myself act on those impulses [conscience]). Independently, I had come to learn of the existence of the Id and the Superego. This notion manifested itself as a novel (Prelude to Darkness) in which I explored these two halves, who had since evolved from Impulse vs. Rationality to Good vs. Evil to, in its final and most sophisticated form, Light vs. Darkness. It was almost 400 pages of my thoughts on the nature of the human heart, and it consumed my life for years.

After I finished it, I put these two characters away, in a manner. I no longer viewed Victor and Vincent as opposing characters, and as a result, they were incorporated once again into my soul. I accepted that which I had repressed for so long (Vincent) because I finally understood that he had never been evil. Last semester, I learned that Carl Jung had explored this theme using the archetype of The Shadow, and I learned that Jungian Individuation eventually calls for the reintegration of the repressed parts of the soul into the whole. It was pretty nice, realizing I had figured some Freudian and Jungian psychology on my own (I can gloat, if I want to).

Regardless, I still kept my writing off in a corner of my life. I kept the names Victor and Vincent, but they came to represent not tension within my soul, but balance: Victor was the one who went out, who had friends, who made relationships, who partied, who lived in the real world; Vincent was the one who wondered, who wrote, who dreamt, who narrated, who lived in the fictive world. They weren't at odds, they simply fulfilled complementary roles. I never once felt that the one was impeding the other. True, at times, I wondered if they would ever be integrated. I remember fretting about choosing one over the other, since Vincent obviously couldn't be in a relationship. But, ostensibly, I was content with their curious, harmonious little balance.

I failed to see yet another dynamic: that of premed and English. In college, my plan was to write and publish short stories. I would make a living off of that, so to speak, and continue after graduation. However, just in case, I was also premed--it was Plan B, so to speak. I took General Chemistry, Organic Chemistry, Molecular Biology, Ecology & Evolutionary Biology, and Physics in order to fulfill the premed requirements. I figured, worse comes to worst, I'd just be a doctor. I like medicine; anatomy and physiology fascinate me; I enjoy working on patients--it wouldn't be bad being a doctor.

But premed can't be a Plan B. It demands all your time, all your energy, all your effort. And I, quite predictably, was unwilling to give it all my time. Remember: it was "just" Plan B. So I studied, but I didn't give it my all. So my grades were less than perfect. But, because premed did suck up so much of time, I neglected writing.

To put it succinctly: by refusing to commit to one, I was failing both. Playing it safe was the worst thing I could've done.

Around last summer, after my internship in a hospital, I began considering the possibility of somehow making English my living, rather than medicine. It was just an idea, something I entertained when I got to daydreaming. When I began Junior year, it became a tad more substantial, this idea. I knew someone's mom who had gone from Comparative Literature to Advertising and Marketing, after graduation. So maybe English could lead to something stable, as well.

Last semester, I met someone who had gone from a science major, as a Senior, to Visual Arts. She could have easily graduated as her previous major, without the hassle of making up all the requirements she had missed for Vis. Arts. But she decided that she wanted to make the switch, and then did so. I asked her why, and she responded (this is something of a paraphrase): "Because I wanted to wake up in the morning, happy with what I was doing." Apparently, it is indeed possible to make your dreams a priority.

The daydream lost its haze, and began taking on form. I delved into writing, I got back to my roots--I began exercising creative muscles that had atrophied. And, more importantly, bit by bit, I felt the division between the two lives I led, as Victor and Vincent, slowly disappearing. I opened up about my writing. My family, who had never read any of my writing, suddenly began receiving short stories.

But I was still in Physics. I still hadn't committed.

Today, I dropped the class and, with it, premed. Officially, I am no longer actively pursuing medicine as a viable career option. I am applying for an internship at the Penguin Group; I am applying for an internship as a Creative Writing Teaching Assistant through Johns Hopkins; I am applying for a grant to go to Honduras and write a collection of short stories about her people. I'm writing more; I'm reading more; I'm finally accepting Vincent as a public face. When people ask me what I want to do, I'll tell them I want to be a writer. And I'm going to mean it.

And I'm going to be the man I want to be, the one who follows his passions. The one who isn't afraid of sharing his writing with his girlfriend. The one who seeks relationships that help his creativity, not ones from which he must hide it. And, finally, I'm going to be the man who can, after months of unwillingness, finally look himself in the mirror.

And as for this post? This is an invitation to you guys to follow me on the journey. Beginning now, this is officially my literary blog, one in which I regularly (REGULARLY) post my thoughts and writing, as an aspiring novelist. Watch me grow, guys. You are my friends (I assume, unless you are here creeping, in which case, hello Mr./Ms. Creeper), and this is me opening up about my writing. I'm not sure where this trajectory is taking us, but I'm excited to find out with you.

Champagne Toast

People are going to ask me why I did it. Why I decided to give it up. The people who ask are going to be my friends, and some of them will not understand. "You don't have a problem." No, not yet I don't.

I'll give them answers that they will be able to understand, but the real one I'll divulge here, for anyone to read, and it will be cryptic, unless you know me a little better than most people do:

Because I want to be able to look myself in the mirror again.

"There isn’t... and this is the really important point... there isn’t a third option. There is no middle ground. If I could find a middle ground, I would have found it by now, and we would not be having this discussion." Champagne Toast