In college, I wrote fiction for my creative writing classes, but once I graduated and it was no longer a Have-to, I stopped. Since writing is as much a part of me as my kneecaps, I continued to write, but almost exclusively expository pieces. It wasn’t until Nanowrimo in 2007 that I rediscovered how much I can enjoy fiction.
Since then, writing fiction has once again become a Have-to, but in an entirely different way: I have to do it in order to retain what little of my sanity hasn’t been eroded away by the all-too-frequent mind-numbingly dull episodes in daily life.
I know this sounds like a really unliterary reason to write, and all the Be Here Now folks are clucking their tongues at my inability to see the beauty and complexity of the Universe in a humble Post-it.
But seriously, what do you think William Faulkner was doing all day whilst licking stamps in that Oxford, Mississippi post office? What’s Stephen King thinking about in that DMV line? Betcha dollars to donuts they were either pondering the plot of their latest creative endeavor, or making mental notes on the people or place around them for use in it.
When they talk about ennui, they’re talking about the suburb of adulthood, where everything from the car to conversation is a politically correct, non-confrontational shade of beige and there are no flamingos on the lawn. Even the things that bring us great joy can take on a patina of predictability. Most people don’t want to admit we live here but, well, studies show most people think they’re smarter than average, too.
It’s the human condition to become conditioned to things. Like how the first couple bites of chocolate tastes like Manna from Heaven and the rest takes like… chocolate.
My actual job, the stuff I do when they let me work, is good. It’s just a job, but it does not suck. The meetings I have to go to, however – now they suck big, stinky, diseased goats. And my commute, though shorter that it once was, can still put me to a catatonic trance (that’s bad). Then there’s any car trip longer than an hour, endless lines at the store and post office, and the occasional obligatory spousal event I must attend.1
And thus I began my 38th year considering embarking on a second career in crime, taking up extreme tourism, or getting a full-body tattoo.
But lo! Who is that cresting yonder hill, sitting tall upon the back of a mighty steed and brandishing aloft a shining pen? Tis the muse come to rescue me from the brink of disaster!
Which is to say she threatened me with a certain painful and bloody death if I were to sully her sleek, alabaster hotness with that tattoo. In return for my restraint, she gives me an everlasting and ever-varying assortment of fluorescent plastic ornaments to scatter freely about the grassy plains of my mind.
- No, not that kind of spousal event. Get your mind out of the gutter! [↩]
