What Happens When the Magic is Gone?

In reading Hemingway's biography by Carlos Baker ("A Life Story") -- the absolute most complete biography available -- I was again struck at what happened to Hem in his final days. You see, he was getting shock treatments for depression, and taking blood pressure pills, and he found that he could not write any longer: his imagination was gone. He couldn't stand it. So he busily went about trying to kill himself and his wife stopped him a couple of times and even locked his guns away in a closet.  But she didn't hide the keys well enough and he blew the top of his head off a few weeks before his 62nd birthday, and just seven years after he won the Nobel Prize in Literature.

I'm well aware that a writer's imagination is a fleeting, mercurial thing. It is a limited fountain.

At one point, about 10 years ago, I had a gran mal seizure and while the paramedics were trying to put an oxygen mask on me (I pushed it away because I couldn't breathe fast enough), my heart was beating out of my chest--faster than ever in any race I'd run.  I  fought off death, which took every last ounce of my effort. My most pressing thought was, "I won't get to finish writing my novel!" This was my first book. It was very important to me. (a few years later Hurricane Katrina hit and I ended up publishing that book first.)

I woke up in the hospital a few days later, and the doctors told me they'd scanned my brain and I had huge tumors all over it and they showed me the CAT scan image. It looked like a skull with a glove inside it. Talk about making you feel mortal. They said I had non-Hodgkin lymphoma and had maybe 30 days left. I accepted it. Nothing I could do but call my teenage son to the hospital room to let him know that Pop was on his way out. (The first thing he asked was, 'Does Grandma know?")

A couple of days later a doctor came in and said they had made a mistake, and that they'd been giving me antibiotics and I was responding. All I needed to do was submit to a spinal tap just to make sure, and they'd let me out of the hospital. Oh, and also, the spinal tap is painful and can have life-threatening effects. I said OK. I had the worst headache in my life for about a week, since In was about a quart low on spinal fluid.

Turns out it was not a tumor but lesions from a rare brain infection that comes from a parasite found in the water in the southern U.S. The lesions were shrinking, and would eventually calcify and disappear. I took heavy medicine for a year and they did serial MRI scans to verify the progress.

They had me on an anti-seizure drug. The effect of it was that I couldn't write.  I had no imagination. I couldn't stand it, so against doctors' orders I tapered off the drug (I told them I wanted off of it and they said don't stop suddenly).  Eventually, when the lesions were gone, they said it was probably OK.

So I am quite aware of the finiteness of life, and this fuels my urgency for writing, even living.

When asked what the best age for writing is, William Faulkner said, I believe, "in your thirties." This only serves to remind me what a late start I got!

Right now I am doing essentially "contract writing" for three nonfiction business/tech books, which is almost like having a job. I haven't had a real job in over 20 years. But worst of all, it keeps my from the deliciousness of writing fiction, plays and poetry -- the type of literature that can last. Tech books go out-of-date fast. A good novel can stand up for 500 years!

Back to the initial point: lately there have been several deaths of celebrities who had lost their edge or whose talent had diminished.  They could not adjust: the magic was gone. Football player Junior Seau killed himself, Whitney Houston died of a drug overdose, and I believe that even Michael Jackson's death a few years ago was the result of his thinking that he could not perform like he used to, that he was not up to the challenge.

There are many more examples. Sometimes people compete too long, since they don't know what else to do, and they end up injuring themselves.  I think that's what happened to Mohammed Ali.

It's a tough one, but you have to prepare. you have to be cognizant that God-given gifts have an expiration date.

I can't wait to get back to writing my next novel!

It's Tough Serving Two Masters

Chekhov started his career as a doctor. When he began to write, he was pulled in two directions until his short stories started selling and he was able to be a full-time writer. Later, when reflecting on that period, he wrote of how difficult it was to "serve two masters."

To keep things going economically, to provide capital and time to invest in my writing, I research and publish information technology reports. It's been my primary career for over 25 years, but I really wish I could devote all my efforts to my novels, plays, screenplays, essays and poetry. (yes, poetry, but I will not publish it until I'm dead and gone!).

I was complaining about how serving two masters scatters my mind, how it frazzles me and prevents me from going all out as a writer. But a friend of mine listed all of the horrific life situations many famous writers overcame, and as he went, I realized, really, I ain't got it so bad. I mean, I live by the Pacific Ocean and also have a place in the beautiful mountains of central Mexico. In the last year or so, I've been to three Cuban cities, seen plays on Broadway, went to Las Vegas, San Felipe, La Paz, Cancun, Puebla, Chouloula, Ensenada, and seen bullfights in Tijuana, Mexico. My compatriot writers had it pretty tough: John Fante went blind and dictated his last few books and screenplays; Thoreau and Walker Percy had tuberculosis, which weakened them, causing Percy to write mostly lying down, and sending Thoreau to an early grave; William Burroughs was a lifelong heroin addict; Carson McCullers spent her life in depression; Hemingway was most assuredly bi-polar and an alcoholic, as was Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Capote, Tennessee Williams, Kerouac and many others; Poe was a flat out nutcase; Wilde was sent to a cold, damp prison, even Shakespeare was a pothead.

So you just have to play the hand you're dealt, and do the best work you can. And the craziness, the strain, the strife and struggle can be a great influence on the art itself.

What a Writer Really Needs is Time

Some writers are afforded long lives and therefore have the chance to develop and contribute over a long period. Others have died tragically early, perhaps having penned one or two great ones, but they weren't able to gain their proper place in history. And there is some luck, good fortune that plays a role there.

Back when Faulkner and Hemingway were around, it wasn't so uncommon for men to die in their 60s (they both did) and still have lived a full life. Burroughs and Mailer lived to their 80s, but some of the real, real greats, like Fitzgerald, Kerouac and Oscar Wilde died in their 40s. So did Carson McCullers, who was pretty amazing herself. And then there's John Kennedy Toole, who offed himself in his 30s because he couldn't get A Confederacy of Dunces published -- and it was subsequently awarded a Pulitzer.

Wilde particularly got screwed. After his fiasco with that royal boy and hard prison time, he was finished, only writing a few sad and dark pieces and then dying in Paris. He was on track to surpass Shakespeare, I believe, and also, I don't really believe Shakespeare wrote everything he's given credit for -- not even half (and there's tons of evidence to back that).

My hope is that I am granted the time to do the work I know I can do.