Coming Home
Richard Paez
12/24/05

I slept less than four hours last night, have been awake for less than five minutes. It is the second time in seven days that I am awake before eight in the morning after less than five hours of sleep. Make note because this is as early in the day as you are ever likely to see me up and about, and the only time you will ever see me in the light of dawn both at work and conversational.

I'm preoccupied with time this morning, as are most people who didn't get enough sleep in the night and who look forward to a long drive in the day. As I poured my coffee I began to make a mental list of times and dates, of the events that have transpired therein and the costs that have come along with them (as we all know, time means money, as do most events and all dates). I am four months out of a four and a half year relationship, seven months into what was meant to be a three month job, four hours away from a five hour drive, a couple hundred dollars short of next months bills, and sitting pretty on the crest of Christmas—with no gift for my sister, no card for my parents, and no joy at the thought of spending the next four days inflicting my messy dog on their tidy lives, much less their tidy lives on my messy dog. The closest I have to Christmas spirit is a stomach upset by the ghost of drinking past, the closest I have to a decorated tree is a pile of unwashed laundry, and the closest I have to a partridge in a pear tree is a kitten in the kitchen sink—and she may very well be the only creature bearing gifts this holiday—with my luck a whole litter of gifts, less wanted than tweed socks and almost as hard to get rid of.

A quick accounting reveals that I spend at least 48 hours a week delivering pizza, almost as much reading and writing, revising and researching, and at least an hour a day with my dog. I quit writing poetry. I quit cooking (except by special request). And happiest of all, I quit TV. The only way I would waste another moment of my life doing anything related to television is smashing one for fun, or possibly arguing over it in court, if it were somehow possible to sue the scientists who invented that worthless device for all the time, money, and sanity it has cost me. I'd be awarded millions for suffering alone, let alone actual costs. I can list a dozen projects I've failed to complete thanks to TV's hypnotic glow, count a house-full of unwanted products I bought due to its sly salesmanship, and name at least one woman who left me for its better bedside manners.

I quit writing poetry, and the website where I shared my poetry, because I no longer feel inspired to write verse. It seems to me that all my poetry was an attempt to answer questions I will never have the answers to—if I could find the answers on my own I wouldn't have felt the need to write the poems, and if those who could answer the questions would, I would have been satisfied long before the scribbling started. I was never meant for verse anyway—all my lines were forced and convoluted with stress, like an rich man's smile or an old man's knuckles. I am much better suited to the frank honesty of prose, where line stops don't sever my sentences and meter doesn't mess with my meaning. My favorite poetry is written in prose anyway: I'll take a long walk with E.B. White's essays before I travel with anything written in rhyme, and would sooner lose myself in the deserts of Frank Herbert's Dune than find anything of value in poetry, no matter how inviting its shade or how sweet its waters. I have never read poetry outside of the classroom and I never will, and it just doesn't make sense to write something you don't read—it's like making love to a stranger: thrilling at first but ultimately unfulfilling, a proposal that never returns well the initial investment.

But just because I've invested well in prose does not mean I profit on it quickly or easily. Writing an essay is like opening a restaurant—you start off bankrupt and have to work long hours and break a lot of dishes before you see your first dollar. Before I started this sentence there were 719 words on the page. It is 9:19 now. It was 8:05 when I began, and I have already read, reread, and revised those words at least five times. I will go over them, and the words that follow, fifty more times before the first set of eyes besides my own see word one.

When I think about my own writing, I inevitably wonder how White wrote. Not what or why or where or in what manner he wrote, for the answers to these questions are laid out plain and perfect and clear in his essays, as clear as the text which appears on my high-tech, high-resolution, millions-and-millions-of-colors computer monitor. I can see him now, as if I held a photograph in my hand, sitting in his boathouse, playing at his typewriter like a piano, pulling back, pushing forward, gazing out the window at the birds. But still I wonder: how did E.B. get the words out from his brain and on to the page? Did White suffer from the same stutterings and backfires and false starts that I do? Did he ever look at his typewriter with the guilt and exhaustion and frustration that I do at my keyboard?

I am a member of the digital generation. My sufferings and failures take place in real-time, not in the typewriter-manuscript time E.B. knew. Instant recognition, instant reconsideration, instant revision—these are my greatest boons and my greatest dangers. When I find a problem—a stray word, a ragged sentence, an infidelity in narrative, a shortcoming in arrangement—it is a simple matter for me to scroll up and down the screen, to accept or reject or revise in the modern miracle of instant retrospection, to cut and paste as suits my whim, my fancy, and I hope, my reader. Sometimes this is good. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't be better to have to retype the whole thing to change one word, to agonize over every choice like a winemaker struggling with the decision to crack the barrel now or to wait a little longer.

I wonder how many times White retyped "Once More to The Lake" before he was willing to show it to his son, if he ever did. How often did he visit the pigpen, standing first some distance from the icehouse, then moving closer until he could smell the sawdust where his friend slept, finally passing the pig's grave on his way back up to the boathouse, before the eulogy was complete? How many times did he revise his introduction to Strunk's "little book," remembering himself as a student in Strunk's class, before he allowed himself to forget it?

I know I am a long way from being as happy with my own writing as I am with White's—an infinitely long way, I know, because he's told me in his own essays me how he himself was never happy with his writing. But that is the joy of composition, the beauty of the pursuit. It is the ultimate hunt. The prey is elusive, invisible, unattainable; its speed increases with the quickness of the hunter, its lust for life grows with his hunger, it improves, step by step and always in pace, with his improvements—or with hers (writing, I am happy to report, was the first sport to fully embrace the participation of women, much to its benefit). Other interests can get expensive, especially those with useful end-products. I can cook relatively well, but the materials are costly and the results are fleeting, lasting an hour at best and at worst revisiting the beneficiaries against their wishes in the morning. I have done some carpentry, but cannot afford proper tools or proper measurements (there is a heavy tax on measurements, whether well taken or not), so my handiwork is usually simple in design and blocky in appearance. And the one time I tried my hand at gardening—it was basil, the first victim in what I intended to be a grand plot—the plant died quickly and its leaves, even while the thing was healthy, tasted horrible (I think because of the fertilizer I used, but it might have just been bad basil—probably because of too much TV). Writing, on the other hand, is free. Its products, while not always useful in the practical sense, are at least enjoyable to the writer. And, most importantly, it travels well. Cast iron pans, circular saws, and garden spades are all very useful things at home, but can be a real drags around town.

Time and numbers, writing and traveling, all are heavy on my mind this morning. Just before writing this, in anticipation of my drive, I read E.B. White's "Home-Coming." His homeward journey couldn't be more opposite my own: he traveled North towards Maine, in endless snowfall; I am heading South towards Miami, under endless sunshine. Yet I feel resonance, reading about his journey as I contemplate my own:

Familiarity is the thing—the sense of belonging. It grants exemption from all evil, all shabbiness. A farmer pauses in the doorway of his barn and he is wearing the right boots. A sheep stands under an apple tree and it wears the right look, and the tree is hung with puckered frozen fruit of the right color.

I am on the Florida Turnpike, at the cost of 20 dollars in tolls, as it is familiar to me and the quickest route home. The farmer I pass is the same, and wears the same boots, but he is growing oranges, not apples, and it is his cows, not his sheep, that wear the right look in my eyes. White was heading to his own home, where he could think and write in peace; I am heading to my grandmother's home, where I'll be lucky if I can manage more than my current four hours of sleep, let alone think and forget about writing. Cassie, my dog, has taken her regular spot in the back seat. The familiar road signs greet me as warmly as the sunshine that feeds the oranges and liquefies the asphalt. And my car, trustworthy as ever, runs smooth.

***

Writing, like family and the yearly trips to visit them, is a habit one gets in to, though unlike family, the most difficult part of writing is getting into the habit to begin with. It's not an easy routine to develop, like drugs or alcohol or sex or violence—it doesn't have the same rush, the same high. The sex or drug addict gets as much of a thrill from sneaking around the shadier parts of town to find his kick as he does from indulging in the addiction itself. Not so for the writer. Research doesn't offer the same kind of excitement as crime, though the researcher often finds himself breaking the law. In terms of rising heartbeat or quickening breath there is little change in the writing subject conducting an interview compared to the adulterous subject conducting his. And few will find any real thrill of danger in the shadier parts of the library (not that there isn't danger to be found there—librarians and library patrons can be quite threatening when provoked; reaching for that lofty tome can be as exhilarating for the book-seeker as rock climbing is for the thrill-seeker; and the ever-present risk of discovery by sneeze or cough looms over the trespasser. But still, being discovered in the library won't get you fired, ruin your marriage, or result in too long a jail sentence).

Most addictions carry a social element which is reassuring to the user and which provides him with a network of people who support, supply, and sympathize with his habit. Marijuana smokers are notorious for their tribal approach to using—they happily share their grass with others, even with complete strangers, so that they can indulge in the communal puff-puff-pass ritual. Issues of race, social status, religion, and even high school affiliation all dissipate with the question "you smoke?" In the ghettos of Miami, where gang activity accounts for endless crime and where violence between tribes is never more than a block or two away, the ancient ceremony of the peace pipe is alive and well, still practiced with all of the solemnity and spiritual ecstasy it was centuries ago—except nowadays it is practiced in tricked-out Honda Civics instead of hand-woven teepees, and the weed is smoked in multi-colored Pyrex pipes instead of carved-out wooden ones. Students of anthropology will be happy to know that drums are still very much a part of the ritual, though now the beat comes courtesy of a laser striking magnetic filaments sandwiched between the plastic layers of a CD instead of hands striking cured leather stretched across the mouth of a hollow gourd.

Drunks, too, have social status. Friends will drink with the alcoholic, invite him to galas and weddings and bars. Family members will coddle him during his sadder moments, call him the life of the party during his happy moments, pity him in his difficult moments, and defend him during his violent ones. If a man is successful and an alcoholic, he buys expensive bottles and is said to have impeccable taste. Associates will ask him to recommend wines at the dinner table, women will drink with relish the expensive cocktails he mixes, and within all the circles he will be spoken of with respect and admiration even if at times he slurs a word or stumbles a step. If a man is unsuccessful and an alcoholic he is still no Lazarus. As long as he leaves no debts with his creditors and no bruises with his children he is allowed to live a life free of major stigma. Such a man may not drink as well as his rich neighbor, or be thought of as highly for his choice of punch, but he is thought of no less for it either, and if all goes well for him he will be left alone to swim his way through life till its merry end. Even if a man is a failure and an alcoholic he is not despised or denounced but pitied and rehabilitated. The man who cannot stay afloat in the currents of his inebriation will be the subject of a heroic rescue at sea—as soon as the news of his sinking breaks he is sought out in the storm by friends and coworkers and civil servants and family members and charity groups and all kinds of happy volunteers. He is found, towed back to shore, drug up onto dry land, and placed in a comfortable hut where he is nursed back to health with good food, compassion, counseling, and all the help a floundering man could ask for. In fact, if a man is a failure and not an alcoholic it behooves him to take up drink and quickly, to dedicate himself strongly to the cause of inebriation, because no one pities a man who is a failure on his own merits, but if there is a smell of grog about him, if his stumbling seems due to the disease of drink, he is a victim, and nowadays no one can ignore the cries of a victim.

Again, this is not the case for the word addict. Except for the most successful wordsmiths, no one sympathizes with the writer locked in the attic for days on end, doing god knows what, who is unwilling (or unable) to discuss (or admit) what he's been up to behind closed doors. For the man or woman caught in the throws of a writing high there is no sympathy, no counseling, no support groups. A drunk, even a violent one, is the victim of some outside force, one that could befall anyone regardless of character, personal rectitude, or moral quality. A writer, even a successful one with many published works and framed awards, is not considered a victim of some external influence but instead condemned as a person who has given in to some strange, internal influence, one that non-writers cannot understand and don't want to. Putting up with a writer is like putting up with a devil worshiper—both revel in some secret perversion, both make midnight sacrifices on bloodstained altars, both commit unspeakable sins to satisfy unknowable lusts. The scribe—regardless if he or she is a novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, or some combination thereof, and regardless of where he or she is or what social environment he or she currently occupies—is always taking notes, always inebriated on words, always betrayed by the nervous twitches that presage the seizure of the next written page. The stink of letters lingers on them, never dissipates regardless of how many showers they take or how often they brush their teeth.

Even the most committed drunk has moments of sobriety, and for many years can go about his or her business, take care of household chores, raise children, maintain good personal hygiene, and be an otherwise respectable member of the community. Many drunks keep perfectly mowed lawns, attend their kid's little league, drive clean cars, keep tight schedules, and make perfectly good neighbors as far as everyone who keeps track of such things is concerned. Likewise, the lawyer who lines up cocaine shots after winning a case and the business owner who pops pills to ease negotiations are often the pillars of the community, and though these individuals may consult prostitutes on Thursday evening and examine porn on Saturday afternoon, as long as they look neat in their church clothes on Sunday morning no one questions their private habits. This neighborly courtesy, however, is not extended to the writer who lives next door. The writer's comings and goings are never predictable, as he may spend weeks locked up working on a manuscript one month, then disappear on a research trip for days the next, and all in all the folks next door find it impossible to assign to him or her a pattern of behavior which is the first requisite of a desirable neighbor. The observant citizen, taking out the day's trash, looking up, and peering across the street and past and untended yard in the night, will note the writer's house dark but for one light burning in an upstairs room, the sole silhouette visible in the window hunched over in the gloom, bent to unknown and probably criminal acts. In the bright light of day, stopping at home for lunch, the same astute individual will note the writer's house is still dark, all the shades drawn, its inhabitant no doubt asleep at high noon—a very un-American time to be asleep if there ever was one.

The writer's car, no matter how successful the writer, is often a mess. It is rarely a newer model, often dirty on the outside, and always a sty on the inside. Especially for those who live near a suburban writer, this is a point of great consternation, and if the addict in question drives a foreign car in a community of patriotic motorists, it is doubly troubling—possibly evidence of subversive behavior or even high treason. Neighbors invariably pity not the writer but the writer's spouse, and if—god forbid—two writers share a domicile in marriage, the neighbors pity themselves, for no doubt shaggy lawns, persistent rumors, and the stench of ink will drive down property values, scare away business, and possibly, should word get out to the universities and coffee houses that writers have nested here, attract more of the same, dooming the entire neighborhood to a future as a bohemian slum.

Yes, writing is a hard habit to develop, and a lonely one to have. Most people addicted to drugs or perversion can relate to each other quite readily, as once the cultural trappings of their particular abuses are removed their habits are shown to follow similar patterns. The woman addicted to drink and the man addicted to sex live parallel lives—they visit different haunts but take the same steps to reach them, and they wake up with the same hangover. A writer wouldn't be totally unfamiliar with the themes and topics of an Addicts Anonymous meeting, but would never feel truly at home there. Admitting that you are a writer in front of a group of users is more likely to draw gasps of disgust than tears of sympathy. At best you will be considered a perverse voyeur, at worst you will be condemned as a journalist—an accusation that would tarnish even a writer's reputation. Even if you were given the chance to explain your innocent intentions—you, like them, have a problem; you're ready to admit to it and are trying to get help—they will never believe you. They will run you from the room if they don't outright run you through. He who wakes up one cold morning and realizes that he is addicted to words must come to terms with the fact that there are no twelve-step programs for him, no network to catch him should he fall, no understanding forthcoming from his neighbors and no funding available from the government. He is on his own.

***

For drug addicts, the worst part of using is the low that invariably follows the high. For writers, the best moment of writing is the high achieved after the low. The cocaine user, regardless of his station in life or his particular means of consumption, always finds himself in a downward spiral—after each post-snort crash he must do more and more for less and less. The writer who cuts a little persistence, conviction, and compassion into her dose finds herself on an upward spiral—while she must pull herself up after each falling-down, her work, herself, and her world are much improved for her efforts. In time she will find that she too, like the cocaine addict, must do more and more, but will receive in return not less and less but even more and even more.

It is hard to pinpoint what causes writing addiction in the first place. Discovering the cause will be the first step in finding a cure, scientists believe, and white-coats of many disciplines—psychologists and sociologists and anthropologists, editors and journalists and critics—have been working diligently for decades to be the first to find the culprit. Many believe that writing is a symptom of a deeper mental disorder, pointing to writers such as Plath and Poe as their proof. Retrospective psychologists and respected psychics have even put the long-dead and well-respected Shakespeare on the couch, diagnosing the poor bard with mental maladies ranging from multiple personality disorder to unfulfilled homosexuality. Others believe that the compulsion to compose is a socio-economic condition, citing Thoreau and Dickens, the many "ethnic" writers, and the various rebels, anarchists, and rule-breakers of the beatnik school. To these theorists, writing is for the writer an act of rebellion against authority, not unlike the teenager, Freud's fingers in his brain, who sneaks out a night just to spite his parents. Still others believe that it is the manifestation of some long-lost tribal need, a shamanic act undertaken by the culture's willing outcasts to purge proper society of its evil spirits and its misdeeds.

I don't know. And I'm not so sure that the doctors and researchers will find a Unified Field Theory of writing anytime soon. But then again time passes slowly for me, and something may come up sooner than I expect. It has been six days since I started this letter. Last Saturday, with less than four hours of sleep to my name and more than thirty dollars of gas in my tank, I drove to Miami for the obligatory Christmas visit. The drive down was unremarkable, the visit much like the drive, and the food much like the visit—all lazy forward-movement, easily forgettable. On Saturday evening we ate the traditional Cuban Christmas Eve dinner, but instead of cooking it ourselves we ordered it from a kitchen that delivers Cuban staples—rice, black beans, roast pork—by the pound. My father was pleased that he managed to feed ten people for less than forty dollars without a moment's labor—it was the main point of conversation for the next three days—though I wonder what my dead grandfather, despite his staunch anti-communism, would have thought of this indecent decent into craftless capitalism. Sunday morning my little sister and I opened our presents. She got a jump-rope, enough sidewalk chalk to recreate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on our fully-paved backyard, and a plastic microphone that plays Christmas songs for the child to sing along to, accompanied by the most intense feedback ever generated at seven o'clock in the morning by a battery-operated toy. My father, having seen my house in Gainesville for the first time only three weeks ago, and accustomed as he is to the lifeless deserts of El Paso, must have been overwhelmed by the Gainesville wildlife he encountered while here, as my most noticeable gift was a U.S. General combat knife—large enough to kill an elephant with, should one ever stray uninvited on my property—with the words "Made in China" proudly etched on the blade.

I did experience a moment of slight excitement on the way back up, when the nail that had embedded itself in my front driver-side wheel quit the ride, having decided that it had had enough of its Ferris wheel existence. All in all, however, the trip to Miami and back was unexciting. I heard that my good friend White just got back to town, and finding him in his living room he had this to say about his home coming:

…toward the end of the afternoon, having motored all day, I arrived home and lit a fire in the living room. The birch logs took hold briskly. About three minutes later, not to be outdone, the chimney itself caught fire. I became aware of this development rather slowly. Rocking contentedly in my chair, enjoying the stupor that follows a day on the road, I thought I heard the dull, fluttering roar of a chimney swift, a sound we who live in this house are thoroughly accustomed to. Then I realized that there would be no bird in residence in my chimney at this season of the year, and a glance up the flue made it perfectly plain that, after twenty-two years of my tenure, the place was at last afire.

I am happy to report that nothing as pyrotechnic as White's chimney fire greeted me upon my arrival. The washing machine washed my laundry without too much complaint, the dishes subjected themselves to a through cleaning without causing too much mess, and the kitten has yet to deliver her presents—though it is clear now that this is only a delay and not a cancellation. Still, though all is as well as can be expected, I have come no closer to solving this writing-addiction problem. Perhaps, as I write more about it, I'll find a way to kick the habit.

04/29/2006

Author's Note: (c) Richard Paez 2006

Posted on 04/29/2006
Copyright © 2024 Richard Paez