The Emotional Orphan

-Stanley Corngold said, in his introduction to Kafka’s Metamorposis, “To be a writer is to know the delight of reflection and the beautiful lament, but it is also to be a kind of dead creature, from whom the living must flee and who is thus rendered homeless.”

These words, written about arguably one of the most profound writers of the twentieth century are quite scary to me.

Kafka himself espouses in diary entries and letters to Max Brod  on the idea that the price for the passion of writing is equal to “service to the devil”. His belief was that there are two kinds of writers. One who writes in the daylight writes “stories”. The second like him, writes in darkness, with a “talent for portraying my dreamlike  inner life” and that this talent “has thrust all other matters into the background ; my life has dwindled dreadfully, nor will it cease to dwindle.”

He goes on to say to Brod, “The wish that a naive person sometimes has. I wish to die, and watch others crying over me is what (this “dark”type) such a writer constantly experiences. He dies (or does not live) and continually cries over himself.”

I really have no large volume of written work. Some infrequent journal work, sappy commentaries, and a few poems with no structure. I am not extremely disciplined, but words are a passion.

I have used them for a multitude of reasons, as a tool, as a weapon, as the impetus for some wondrous action by myself or others. They have justified, rationalized, hypnotized, mystified, and been advice both taken and given. Ive seen their power. Ive seen them fall on deaf ears. They have motivated, and paralyzed, me.

Ive seen words mean the world to those I love, and I have seen them mean absolutely nothing. Usually in that order. Usually the same words.

As a teacher and as a salesman I have made presentations which used the exact same “chosen” or “proven” words that never changed except in the tone, inflection, or delivery speed required to meet the goal for the specific audience.

I recall using writing as a form of catharsis from a very young age. I can describe the feeling Id get from tossing some words onto a page as one thing; bingeing, and purging. This adult oriented phrase was not the one Id have chosen then, but today it fits.

I would binge on the hope that whomever read them would be so impressed, and would shower me with accolades of such proportion even my Mother and Father- the successful trial attorney and King Master of all eloquence, vocabulary, and spoken word, -would have no choice but to be proud. I binged on the idea that my roses were redder, violets bluer and so powerful that Laurie Partridge would fly the coop to live happily ever after with me, or Jan Brady would forsake her ultra- modern blended family in order to establish a more traditional one with me in  Suburbia-Atlanta.

The purging, as in the real world, was much uglier, and my understanding of my need to do so was elusive. The escape, control, and release were there, even if only fleeting. There were some pretty dark stories, much darker than my age should have conceived. The kind of thing more normally associated with a therapist, some black and red crayons and monsters under the bed or in “closetland”, than with words.

No heroes or villans surfaced usually, but stories where the lone (always lone) character had really hard decisions to make. The most prominent one in my memory involved a young man in a horrible prison, who-so wracked with the pain of loneliness develops a friendship with a large cockroach. This bug is as reliable, trustworthy, and loyal as a pet dog. The guards begin to neglect the young man, and eventually, as a sadistic science experiment, begin to withhold food from him. Finally, as the boy wrestles hard to cling to life, he must come to terms with the fact that to stay alive, he must eat his loyal cockroach friend, cockroach family, and cockroach buddies.

All this from a well adjusted,  (or else,) seven or eight year old middle class kid from the suburbs. Chew on that all you armchair shrinks out there … Then act surprised I ended up doing drugs, drinking, and that I ended up in a jail cell a couple of times. At least they fed me…

The way I have secretly felt most of my life could easily be equated to the descriptions made by Kafka himself, and Mr. Corngold when speaking of writing. I have often felt the inherent loneliness, and alienation, as well as the suspicion that somehow it has been self imposed, or as the result of some repressed memory caused by some harm brought upon me. I do not know if any of this is true-my perceptions about lots of things have often been misguiding. Like a lot of other things, I also suspect it really doesnt matter. The causes are rarely that relevant, and the conditions are what they are. The choice, in most cases, is still mine to make change happen. My experience has proven that my efforts usually bring about similar results as a lack of effort have.

So then, where does that leave me? What shall I do next?

It seem that writers do have some freedom to exercise eccentrcity. More than just “poetic license”,this is almost like a reward for sharing, or shining a spotlight on some of those deeper, more ingrained thoughts and feelings a majority of us carry around. Mystery writers allow us to be involved in high brow intrigue we may never see otherwise. Romance novelists have been known to fill voids in dull lives, teach us to fantasize, or heaven forbid, give us a standard by which we can judge  our own relationships. Sorry guys.

How many of us have not secretly cheered at the particularly horrible death delivered to an especially nefarious villain? Writers are the ones who provide this service. Self help authors, philosophers, spiritual leaders, biographers and a host of others serve their purposes. The common thread is that writers of all sorts tend to have the courage to say what needs to be said.

In return, wtiters get to be unkempt if wanted, live in isolation if desired, use a typewriter instead of a computer if artistic need be, and have people discuss how eccentric literary prowess has made them as evidenced by clothes that are out of style, and dont match. If you are really good, you can have six toed cats like Hemmingway, or your ashes shot out of a cannon like Hunter S. Thompson.

I, with my often immature, naive view of life, my well hidden low self esteem, and obvious disconnection from people and relationships can now use art as the reason . I am so sorry ex wives, you always said I was “deep”, and that I wrote so well. Obviously, I wasted your time and mine pursuing those other careers, and slowly draining all the good from our lives together until you had to run screaming from the building, and cut off all ties as if we never happened. If Id only realized I was a writer sooner, things could have been so different.

Do I want to be a writer? Jeez, look at all the perks. I really can be as “close to the edge” as some have suggested. The truth is I have no choice. My Mother always said I had recurring troubles in my life because God had a plan for me and I was running from it.  I guess she was right. Im a writer, by God…

2007JNV