Noise in the Attic

In other words, right up my alley.

I was reading Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian last week.  A wonderful book, by the way, but take it slow so you can savor it and get all the subtle details.  A lot of the best lines are throw-aways, like the one that’s been bugging me for days, now.

At one point during the book, one of the characters makes a semi-joke about a headless vampire (it makes sense in the context of the story).  This is the kind of challenge that I enjoy.  Could there be a story here?  Could I find it and write it?

This is a scenario with a lot of potential for both slapstick humor and chilling horror.  that’s a combination I really like.  Fear and humor are so closely related that they can sometimes be hard to tell apart.   this is one of the hard parts of having an active imagination.  Sometimes, I get hung up on the strangest things.

I’m just waiting for that 3am catalyst idea to come along that will spark this into something.  Maybe one day.

Permuted Press has issued an open call for submissions for their latest zombie anthology, History is Dead.  They want stories set before the 20th Century, and exotic locales are a plus.  This has, of course, piqued my (admittedly twisted) interest.

The historical aspect fits in neatly with my long-standing fascination with ancient Mesopotamian mythology, religion, and magic (all the same thing in those cultures) to produce an intriguing idea.  The two climactic scenes have already played themselves out in my mind.  Though these are “candy bar” scenes, I will have to go ahead and write them so I can capture my current peculiar mental state–a mixture of bloodthirstiness, emotional anguish, and deep black humor.  Giggling all the way to the boneyard, as it were.

Things are looking up.  Over the weekend, I finally (FINALLY!!!) finished “Sea Change”.  I think I finally got a good ending.  We’ll see.  I submitted it to Ideomancer.

Also looking up is the weather.  Out first Alberta Clipper is moving through today, and we should see several days of highs below 60 and lows in the upper 20’s.  At least a hint of Winter.  Maybe we can stay free of El Nino’s temper tantrums for a little while.

The last few days have been warm, wet, and dreary.  Mushrooms are sprouting everywhere, and they’re all driving cars in Central Georgia.

Clarity of vision is both a blessing and a curse to the creative mind. Writers, and artists of all other forms, see the things that “normal” people dare not. We see the gods and demons, angels and monsters, the things that live beyond the mundane.

Along with the vision, though, comes a heavy responsibility. It is not enough just to be a witness to the larger world, we must also testify to what we see. It is our duty to the human race to show the glories and tribulations that lie beyond the veil.

Why? That is up to each artist to decide individually. I only know that I am compelled to write about the things I see, to transcribe the voices from other worlds. I am compelled to improve the world by creating beauty and, maybe, touching other lives.

What do you think? What is your sense of the artist’s* responsibility?

*Yes, I believe that writers are artists. Stories without art are just words — full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Each word is a note in the symphony, each sentence a line of color in the painting, each paragraph a shape on the sculpture, each scene filmed through the creative eye. Your opinion may vary, but I cling to mine with a strength born of the faith that my toil and tears will not be in vain.

In a comment on my “Still Shaky” post from sunday, Jean said, in part, “Nobody but me knows about the really scary things in my life…”

That is at once the most scary and most beautiful part of being a cretive person, whether writer, artist, musician, dancer, whatever.  Creativity flows from the holes that we punch in our defenses against the stuff inside us.  The bigger the holes, the better the creativity.

Unfortunately, that same weakening of our defenses also brings us closer to madness.  Depression, anxiety, even outright psychosis are almost within our reach and can strike at almost any time.  It is the price we pay for our “gifts”, the tuppence for the piper so we can dance.  I say “gifts” because I believe we creative types don’t have anything that everybody doesn’t have.  Anybody can be creative, if they are willing to cut loose their anchors, hoist the sails, and set course for the edge of the world.  Not many are that brave, or that foolish.

Does that mean creative people are unbalanced?  No.  It just means that we feel more deeply, see farther, hear more of the Universe’s music, than those who deny their creativity.  We simply live closer to the soul.  We are exquisitely balanced, because we stand on the fulcrum.  The imbalance lies in denying a vital part of the human experience by hiding in a shell and never experiencing the joys and sorrows of the creative life.

In conclusion, I leave you with a similar thought, courtesy of Mr. E. A. Poe:

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

heh heh heh

A recent discussion on fantasist about the texture of stories and how different people generatetheir stories in different ways led my mind to “wander lonely as a cloud” down twisty byways as it is wont to do.

Creative people of all stripes share common goals but develop uniquely different methods of reaching them. Creativity is much like fishing. While I would use a Zebco rod and reel combo (cheap and reliable), someone else might opt for a surf-casting rig or a fly rod, or a gill net. Similarly, one will catch salmon, one catfish, another squid or shad or conch or lobster, even kelp for the vegetarians among us. Each of us then prepares our catch with our greatest skill, using our talents and exquisite care to produce a product for public consumption. Each artist is unique, but we all fish in the same streams and rivers, the same ponds and lakes and oceans. Call it the “collective unconscious” if you like, or a common mythology.

One of the biggest hurdles a writer must overcome is finding his or her “path with a heart”. It certainly was for me. Of course, I was laboring under the load of an awful lot of formal education as well. I was trained in the “right” way to think, the “right” way to write, the “right” things to see and the “right” way to interpret them. Real writing is not like that. I am unable to force myself into someone else’s mold. In writing, “right” and “wrong” are very slippery concepts that have no real definitions, only individual interpretations.

Education and low self-respect have really held me back. I like to follow the rules. I like to learn from the experts. I like things explained to me in black and white. All this gray smoke and fog confuses me, and I feel very lost. I often feel like I’m an imposter. I’m not doing this right, I can’t be, I don’t know how. Where’s the map? Where are the signs? How far is it to Kalamazoo?

There’s no map. The only signs are smudged and point in different directions anyway. How far to anywhere depends on what route I take. AAAUUUGGGHHHHH!

I’m feeling my way. I haven’t fallen off a cliff yet, so I’ll keep going. Maybe one day I will develop the ability to detect the Earth’s magnetic field or whatever it takes to navigate this business effectively. In the meantime, please excuse me while I wander around.

Speaking of wandering, how in the hell did I get here from where I started?

Sidetracked

I fell under the spell of The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats and have done absolutely nothing productive, just basked under the sunlamp of a great Irish poet. I guess that’s OK on a cold, rainy day.

One passage in particular sparked a train of thought:

For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle,
And the merry love to dance;

– from “The Fiddler of Dooney”

Hmmmm. Yeats must have lived on a different planet than I do. In my reality the good, or the ones who think they’re good, are far too often dour, judgemental, and just plain unhappy. That thought led to another rant, but I’ll leave it alone for now. Yeats beckons.