Happy Fun Cog

Bill,

The Faulkner book is going quite well, thanks. You do know which one I'm talking about, right? The author is a former professor of ours, and I recognize some of the names in the acknowledgment section.

In any case, reading about Faulkner is quite stunning. For one thing, I had no idea that he was such a massive alcoholic. I knew that he was an alcoholic, yes, but not on this kind of scale. One of the sections I read yesterday described a time when, after he was already considered one of the leading American authors, he went on a series of binges in which, according to his daughter, he would drink until he passed out and then wake up and drink 'til the point of passing out again. He was becoming violent and the family had to hire men to be at the house to keep Faulkner from attacking his wife and children (well, that's an assumption on my part; when I read of a drunk being violent, I don't imagine him beating himself up or attacking passersby).

It's been quite interesting to read about Faulkner at a time when I've been re-focusing on my own writing, a process that I've been working on for the past year or so and something that I'm accelerating with better practice and, more significantly, the cessation of psychotherapy sessions each morning, something that will give me at least an additional hour each morning to write. To read of Faulkner's own focus is amazing. He wrote books so quickly and was so dedicated to his craft that I'm beyond intimidation and just feel nothing but admiration. Of course, Faulkner never had any real jobs. He was supported by his family and just farted around for a few years after dropping out of college to do his own thing. So in that respect, I don't have quite the same freedom that he had. In any case, reading about his incredible focus and dedication has made me aware of my own lack in those areas. Even when I set aside an hour for writing, I'm often not 100% mentally there; part of me is daydreaming or thinking about other stuff. That statement could be applied to most things in my life, of course, including the act of sex. But I feel like I can change it in regards to writing, or at least improve it.

I feel regret now that I didn't provide you better feedback and encouragement five years ago or whenever it was that you were doing more of your own writing. I feel sadness. I was so caught up in my little world of drinking and... well, that's pretty much it. I was all about drinking and consuming. I wasn't paying attention to my life, to the idea of school, to figuring out what to do with my career or anything like that. All I cared about was going home to the bar after getting back from work. Oh, that little Irish pub that I wrapped around myself like a blanket... I used to walk out in front of traffic after drinking, did I ever tell you that? It wasn't blatently suicidal but cars had to either slam on their brakes or speed up to avoid hitting me. On at least one occasion, a bystander shouted something like "What the hell are you doing?" I don't know why I mention that now.

But ah, do you see what just happened there? I was talking about your writing and then quickly slid into navel-gazing. That's such a bad habit. In any case, I think part of the reason that I kept dropping the ball as we tried to get each other focused on writing and being productive was that I was having such a hard time writing and was so very self-critical. I always thought that your writing was good, that your writing was real writing, while my own writing was just useless shit spewed from an alcohol-dazed mind. And that jealousy made it hard for me to keep reading your stuff and giving you encouragement. And now I feel regret about that because now that I'm doing my own writing, I wish that I had more back and forth with you but you're too busy with your family to provide any real input. Having a sister and now two friends with children, I understand how much of a game-changer a kid is. And believe you me, that's something that makes me hesitate when it comes to me thinking about my own family. But, for the record, I do feel frustrated when I send you a story and you just give me some one-off praise. It's not the same thing as criticism. It's not helpful. I know you know that and I know you don't mean anything bad by it. I just wanted to get that off my chest.

Sincerely,
Lionel

********

Leo,

And get things off your chest you truly well. Old friend, how shall I speak... it is hard for me to read the words of a kindred spirit and not feel more sympathy or kindness or a desire for change than I do. I wish you could just understand that not everyone wants to keep going on an emotional quest like Ulysses on a Freudian's couch. When you look out a window and see the land, the trees and the water tower against the sky, the cancerous metal bugs driving to every possible destination on the asphalt capillaries, do you envision everyone being like you? Every driver, every person in an office building, every man, woman, and child always thinking, "What am I feeling? Why do I feel this way? What are the implications of this?" Nothing in this world would ever get done! We would be a nation of navel-gazers. We wouldn't even a nation. We'd be nothing. I shouldn't use the word "nothing" in this context because you're obviously reaching out and I want you to understand that I will always care about you.

But yes, you can be maddening. And yes, I am to busy with my wife and my kid and my life to read through every story you send me and workshop it like we're still in college. Because we're not. I loved college just as much as you and it will always remain one of the favorite eras in my life, but it was a little four year slice that is long gone. We are men, now, responsible for families (especially me) and jobs and bills and taxes. If I didn't have to worry about working or worry about picking my kid up from daycare, yes, I would read your stories. I'd be so happy if I had that kind of time in my life. And from reading what you say, you understand that.

And yet you bring it up. You want to tell me how you feel even though you know the answer already. It's not enough for you to think to yourself, 'Well, I wish Bill would spend more time reading my stories but hey, he's got a kid and I know his schedule is crazy. C'est la vie!' No, you don't leave it at that. Or maybe you leave most things at that, but not others. So now you have to write to me and tell me how you feel, even though you already understand both sides of the equation. What's the point? That is the thing that is so damn maddening about you! You already understand why things are the way the are*. Why must you insist on pushing, on telling people how you feel? Don't you understand that doing so is an act of selfishness? I'm assuming you're doing it because your shrink told you to, because it's something that will make you feel better. Well, what about me, goddamn it? What about the rest of us who are trying to go on with our lives and not make sure that everyone who upsets us knows why they upset us, knows what we feel?

That's not fair to you. I'm sorry. I know that you say this because I'm a close friend and that, if you did not care for me or for our friendship, you wouldn't bother mentioning it. What I do know, though, is that now I have this thing in my head, this little bug that you slipped in my ear, that's buzzing around in my head. Now I know that you're upset that I don't read your stories more closely, even if you understand why that happens and that it's got nothing to do with how I feel about you or your stories. So what am I supposed to do? If I do decide to read your stories and give you closer criticism, I'm bowing to pressure from you and I don't like that feeling. If I just have to shrug my shoulders and say, 'That's the way it is,' then you're forcing me to make a conscious decision to... if not ignore you, then de-prioritize you. You're forcing my hand. You're making me feel things that I don't want to feel. All so you can get something off your chest so you feel better. Is that fair?

Friends until we get old and our balls look like blackened walnuts,
Bill



*in this particular instance; you are obviously not omnipotent; though if you ever do become God down the line, I would very much like to have a full head of hair

Bill,

I've thought up several letters to write but haven't done so. I remember feeling the cold as I walked into my apartment last night, that bitter, clear, heavy cold that you only feel when the temperature is in the single digits... the kind of cold that makes you think that this is the REAL cold whereas the other cold was just a dream... I remember feeling that and then feeling sad for people that are homeless, and how foolish I am to be so angry about my lot in life when I have never been homeless.

I got ridiculously angry at traffic last night on the drive home from work. I've become the Boston driver that I've always hated, though I'm not totally psycho and reckless. I rage at people who drive below the speed limit, I curse at them, I ride their tail... all because I will, at worst, arrive home or at work 5 minutes later than I would if the objects of my derision were not in front of me. And I can hear your voice in my head, chastising or dismissing me because my feelings are more dwellings on negativity than anything else... and I know they are neurotic, but they are my thoughts and feelings, they are the window through which I view things, and I am defensive of them.

Lionel

*******************

Leo,

You are right, old chum; I am chastising you, though I am not dismissive of your concerns. It can be chilling to feel powerful and irrational negative feelings like that, especially when one looks at the news every day and wonders if our society has not gone mad. But why dwell on it? Everyone feels these things, or some approximation of them. You are not alone or even unusual in feeling these things. That is why I tend to dismiss these things when you bring them up, because it is all part of the background noise that we all have in our lives.

I think that, if you were to tell these things to your shrink, he would tell you that it's a matter of your anger being displaced. Or maybe it's a matter of something Freudian, like you want to fuck your second cousin and kill your step-aunt. Who knows?

Things are cold down here in the South, but obviously nowhere as near as what you're feeling now. We've had snow, as I'm sure you know, twice this month, which is roaringly unusual for our little neck of the back woods. People here don't know how to handle snow, so even just an inch shuts down the city. It's amazing. And perhaps that's a metaphor for your fears of your own anger. You don't know how to handle it, or you tell yourself you don't know how to handle it, and so you overreact.

How's the Faulkner book?

Sincerely,
Bill

Bill,

How are you? Well, I hope.

I've been reading a biography of William Faulkner, which includes a good deal of correspondence between Faulkner and his mother, his mentor(s), etc. Reading well-written correspondence, especially correspondence from the early part of the 20th century when writing was modern enough to still read smoothly now yet also much more formal than now, always makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel like I should be writing long emails to family and friends that capture my life in the most beautiful ways, involving minutiae of the physical world as well as the spiritual world. Yet most of my correspondence these days is some version of "Dude, I'm stressed."

In reading this more complex prose of 100 years ago that was in essence one man's casual, day-to-day writing, I feel like I have a small penis. As such, I will now be writing to you in a way that hopefully helps me engage my own correspondence skills without requiring me to spend a lot of time editing. I've also been doing a lot of creative writing, and if I spend too much time writing like this, I will have less time to do creative writing. Which is simply unacceptable. I don't know that I will ever feel good about my creative writing because of the fact that I did no writing after college for such a long time and as such I feel that time can best be summed up as "The Lost Years." No matter how much time I spend on writing now, it will never be good enough.

But enough of that. You've heard all of that before. How is Mary? How is the little one?

Sincerely,
Lionel

************

Leo,

A, yet another letter from you filled with self-doubt about writing and some form of self-flagellation. You do realize that you were engaged in such doubting masochism back before you even graduated from college, don't you? Haven't you ever considered that, by worrying as you do, you're doing nothing more than continuing the pattern of behavior that led to the crippling doubt which paralyzed you creatively for so long?

Or perhaps I swing too hard, too soon. I know that you struggled for a long time with alcohol. I think I've always had a hard time accepting that you actually had a problem because I drank along with you for part of the time. I drank too much, I gained weight like you, and so on. So I felt like I understood what you were going through. Yet I always had Mary, and then of course I moved and didn't see how you spent your daily life for many of the years you struggled. Plus, my own father struggled with alcohol addiction when I was younger, and I think it's quite possible that I don't put much thought into the depth of your struggles because that would mean revisiting emotional terrain that I would much rather leave to the darkening mists of memory.

All in all, I feel your idea of said correspondence is folly, but it may be an enjoyable folly as well. Just be sure to take the time to actually enjoy it, and not treat it as a form of penance for your sins.

Mary says hi.

All the best,
Bill