Taking Off The Mask

There is a part of me that I don’t think anyone will ever like. I don’t only think it, actually. I know it. Because I’ve played that part in public before. I’ve acted it out, cloaked myself in it, and let people know that was who I was. No one liked it. Or almost no one. Most likely it was because of who I am and who I’m not. That part of me that I used to play was someone I’m not particularly fond of now, especially after I’ve spent years covering him up, seeing how people react to him and how he could have thought about things differently. When I was a teenager, I listened to all the depressing music that people association with not unintelligent, independent, non-conformist teenagers. The works. I said and read and posted and lived really depressing mantras. And you know what? No one really much liked me when I did that.  I’ve heard it said that moody introspection only works if you’re considerably taller and are able to play the guitar. And that pretty much hit the nail on the head for how well people responded to the person I was purporting myself to be. It was somewhat an act, because there were other facets to my personality, too. But the glaring thing was that part of me. So I changed it. Not quickly and not easily, but I realized that people liked being around me when I would laugh and joke and keep away from really depressing statements. I made that who I was. And for the most part, I’m still that person. But the mask I wear to appear appealing to others has that part removed from it.

Here’s the part where I actually talk about writing and not just myself. Ask any writer how it feels to have someone read their work. Go ahead, ask them. You will probably get an answer somewhere along the lines of a feeling of mingled shame and hope and somewhere around there, embarrassment–with maybe a dash of pride mixed in. More emotions than that are combined in that experience, but to go any farther into that rabbit hole would risk a loss of focus on my part. It is hard to ask anyone to read one’s work and even harder to actually get anyone to read one’s work. For after you’ve gotten the person to say the word “Yes” they still have to sit down and actually read the damn thing.

But now after beating around the bush for a while, I come to the point I want to make. Have you ever had someone read your writing in front of you? Like while you’re standing/sitting still while they actually read the words you put down in a private place somewhere, unsure anyone in the world would ever actually see it? It is nothing short of horrifying. The simple act of watching someone run their eyes over something from inside you is almost painful it’s so embarrassing. That’s an interesting word, by the way, isn’t it? “Embarrassing.” Em-bare-ass-ing. That’s like saying something goes through the process of making you bareassed. But why is this so embarrassing? Why does it make us feel like we’re back in that dream where we show up to school naked? I have a theory and it relates to that part of me that I know no one will ever like. That part I’ve tried so hard to hide, that part of me that is expressed and given a voice in my dreams where I show up to school naked. And it relates to that part of me that I put down on paper when I write.

My writing, my stuff, my work, whatever I happen to be calling it at the moment is a direct result of putting that part of myself that no one likes on paper. It’s the time where I’m able to take off that mask that I’ve been putting on for necessity of survival and to avoid looking like a huge fucking tool. From my other essay about writing as looking inward to reach out, it’s a bit obvious and hopefully you maybe read that one before reading this one. If not, that’s fine; if so, wonderful. And but so when putting down on paper that part of yourself that has not been given any air, any light, any say for so long except maybe from time to time in the music you listen to, in the books you read, the films you watch, you are giving voice to something that has long been ignored and left on its own–more importantly, you recognize how important and integral this part of you is, even if no one ever seems to respond to it in person. But these ways to get it out are passive, not the same as bringing that part out actively. That is where writing comes in for me. Writing is an act of taking off the mask. You finally free yourself from that wall that you put up between yourself and the world around you. The cruel irony is that often the part of yourself you put down in your work that no one responds to in real life is the very part that people respond to the most in your work. How does this happen, where when you bare your soul in person someone feels like you’re being indecent, but then when you are completely maskless in your work you are praised? Does honesty hold no weight in person? Because it definitely does in art. Art is your moment for honesty. And so isn’t it a little nerve-wracking when someone witnesses that part of yourself that you had vowed to relegate to the dungeons of your soul? At least when in the presence of others, lest you completely turn them off with your honesty and self-obsession? It is as if you went around your whole life with a mask on your face and then one day took a picture of yourself without the mask on, and then you proceeded to show that picture to someone while standing in front of them wearing your mask. Can you imagine what kind of horrors and embarassments and wild possibilities would run through you at that point? It’s probably one of the most conflicting and uncomfortable positions I’ve ever been in, to be honest.   And isn’t that both a little sad and a little admirable that people have this kind of conflict about showing that part of themselves? It’s a little sad in that we are told never to give a shit what people think about us and to do what we want because we want to and so it’s an acknowledgement of the outside world’s effect on us. But it’s also admirable in the sense that we know this part of ourselves has never been well-liked and we may even be ridiculed for it–but at least we are facing that fear in order to say something about ourselves and about everything and anything on this big spinning ball of rock. For all I know lawyers might relate everything in the world to law and doctors to medicine–what I know about is writing and so the filter that all information goes through first is the filter of writing. And it’s this filter that has allowed me to take off the mask that I oblige myself to wear every day. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Thanks for reading. I hope you liked it!

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The Beginning of the End

I have been writing my book since some time in November, when I was trapped in a hellish job where I slang corn dogs and sliced up chubs of meat for assholes who worked for Microsoft and Amazon. I know, what the fuck took me so long?! Honestly, I’m not really sure–though this is also the first book I’ve written where it wasn’t a rip-off of something else I have read, so it’s to be expected I suppose. But now, in the middle of summer I find myself so close to the end of my book that I can taste it. I say about two weeks more of writing 2,000 words a day should do it. With that, I mean I will be done with all the prinicipal word-writing. All the words to my book will be written two weeks from now. Two weeks. It’s so crazy to hear and to think that sometimes I feel like I don’t even want to finish my book. I don’t know if this is normal because I’ve never been at this point in the process where I’m so close to finishing something that’s such a part of me, but one part of me thinks that if I can just keep writing this thing forever, I’ll never have to tear it down.

I think one of the reasons for this fear of finishing is that the book is such a part of me that I balk at seeing what will happen when I show it to others. Not necessarily my friends who are amazing critics and who help me to refine my work as far as possible, but the people who I will send my work to for the final word on whether or not it will find representation or publication or not. I hate the idea that I am afraid of finishing my book because of what will happen to it when it is done but if I’m honest with myself, that’s pretty much it. Sending my book out into the cold cruel world is a frightening thing–especially to know that once I send it out, I’ll have to get to work on another project, whatever it may be. Maybe I’ll feel better about it after I’m finished. These may be the fears of someone who is on the brink of something awesome or wonderful and just doesn’t know it yet. This also tends to happen with people who are about to “level-up” in their writing, slumping into a kind of funk or plateau in their thinking or in their work right before a giant breakthrough pushes them forward.

Another reason I think finishing the book is becoming difficult is because somewhere in the back of my writer-brain, as I read the phrases and experience them coming forth, I know that on a sentence-by-sentence level as well as a conception-based level, I am far better a writer than I was when I began my project. On the face, this seems completely heartening and no cause for anything but celebration. But thinking back, that means 8 months of improvement will have to be reconciled once the book is done. Not only does this seem like hard work, it also seems like I should have my whole book immediately at the skill-level I am at right now, rather than having to be fixed in post. Petty and useless whining on my part, of course, seeing as how the finished product will hopefully be up to snuff. It’s just that fear one faces when looking at work done a while back and suddenly they are horrified to find that they could ever be that bad of a writer. It’s at then that the writer must stay in his seat, strap on his seatbelt, and roll up his sleeves because he has a lot of work ahead of him, just different from the kind that he has done up to this point. However, this kind of writing seems to be something different that I might enjoy. What’s more, I would probably be able to do this writing at one point and then switch over and work on something new, since one is being written with the editor brain and the other with the artist brain. Hopefully this will dispel some of the unpleasantness of seeing my older work that isn’t as good as I’d like it to be.

Something for all you writers to remember and keep in your ears: if you’re reading something of yours that you wrote a while ago and it seems terrible, this is a GOOD THING. It means that your faculties haven’t failed you and that you still have a good sense of quality work, and what’s more, you have probably improved in your writing and recognition of what is good, which means that the next time you write something, it will be better than what you have in your hand. And what’s even more, you’ll probably be able to edit the piece you’re reading right now to a point where it is better. Or, you’ll be able to re-write the story, this time in a way that’s even more aligned with what you envisioned for it in the first place.

By now, I’ve rambled sufficiently about my worries, fears, and then my silver-lining I’ve found in my worries and fears about finishing my book. Hopefully this was entertaining or instructive or both. Neither would be unfortunate, but at times I’m not sure if I’m writing these posts more for myself or for others. Either way, I learn as I write and I hope something of consequence is gleaned after I’m done.

Cheers!

30 Day Book Challenge: Day 6

A Book That Makes You Sad

This one was actually pretty easy for me to point to. Sad doesn’t really explain how this book makes me feel. Depressed and hopeless and numb is more like the word.

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Anyone who has read this book should know why this book makes me depressed. The reason pretty much begins and ends with Judge Holden, possibly the most terrifying character ever written. This guy is a huge, John Goodman-looking hairless albino. Not only that, he’s a rapist, pedophile, murderer, and liar. If this isn’t bad enough, he is the character in the end who is victorious. In the end, he ends up killing (at best) the kid, who is pretty much the least evil character in the book and the hope for any kind of compassion.

The Judge isn’t the only thing making this book intensely depressing though. Another reason is that the book gives us the bloody history of how the West was truly won. This, I think, for any American is cause for concern. It’s ironic that I’m writing this post about a book retelling the bloody history of America on the 4th of July. But in the book we hear tales of women and children being killed and then sodomized. We hear of Native Americans being scalped and tortured. Almost everything about this book is amazingly bleak and depressing.

Lastly, the book advances the idea (mostly espoused by the Judge) that War is God and that violence is the foundation of human nature. Now the idea about violence being the foundation of human nature may be true and I may even be willing to believe that. Maybe not the core, but the foundation, sure. We are animals, after all. But the fact that the Judge seems untouchable and he is the one espousing this belief leaves me very sickened. The character Toadvine puts a gun to the Judge’s head, but decides not to kill him. In what kind of a world would this be allowed to continue? A rapist, liar, murderer is left alive while people are massacred in their homes and the characters with consciences are killed. Fucking hell that’s depressing.

I think the end is why the whole thing sticks in my craw so much. Just after the Judge kills the kid, we get this last passage: “Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die. He bows to the fiddlers and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the judge. He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the fiddles and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and fiddling at once. His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing. He says that he will never die. THE END.”

What the hell kind of a way is that to leave the guy who is the cause of the suffering we see in the novel? Fuck. Yeah, the writing is beautiful. Haunting. Very memorable. The last two lines echo through my head every time I think of the book, but it’s depressing beyond belief when you get through the whole book hoping this guy is going to die and he ends up dancing, saying he will never die. I both hate and admire this book more than I can say. I really like McCarthy’s writing. “Suttree” is one of my favorite books, but some of McCarthy’s ideas in “Blood Meridian” depress me to no end. And usually I’m the person defending books like this that make people uncomfortable. But I guess there must be some sort of truth to it if it has such an effect on me. Anyway, that’s the book that makes me sad.