SAUCING CREATIVITY

It took George nearly a week to write the following:

Jackass Fear

I sit here in the clammy grip of pure fear. My hands and feet are cold, even though the room is warm. Sweat trickles down my arms and down my sides from my armpits. I cannot think; my stomach churns; I cannot get up and leave. It is a form of hell. What is this fear? Where does it come from? Why don't I do something about it?

The fear has two sources: It is both the fear of success and the fear of failure. This is why I sit, locked like the proverbial jackass. Immobile. Caught an equal distance from the two fears just as Burien's ass was immobilized between the two equal stacks of hay, starving to death. If there was only one fear, or if one of the fears was stronger than the other, I would be able to break the grip of fear. I would run; perhaps even write!

No! The two fears are too equal and too powerful. So I sit as if hypnotized, as if some evil force is in control, as if caught in Circe's thrall, as if I am a spineless jellyfish caught in a vortex without an exit.

I tremble from the fear and the sweat continues to trickle. I do not exaggerate, nor do I change, even when my mind knows - as clearly as any mind can know - exactly what the fears are and what they are doing to me. Knowing is not enough. Rationality is insufficient. Neither knowing nor rationality is enough when the mind and the body are trapped as mine are. Such entrapments are the stuff of alcoholism and other addictions, including the "king" of all addictions, procrastination.

The fear of failure seems the easier of the two to understand and to accept. Failure is unpleasant. It rips at the ego like a buzz saw going through balsa wood. It diminishes the spirit. It savages the self-concept. It is the stuff of clinical depression.

The fear of success, on the other hand, makes no apparent sense. We are a society that champions success. Both striving for success and attaining it are highly valued. Achieving success is one of the central values of our culture.

The idea that success should be feared seems patently ridiculous. There is no obvious, rational, sensible basis for such a fear. The fear of success, therefore, must be enigmatic. The layers of the enigma must be peeled away to see what lies beneath - to reveal what is deeply hidden. It is there that understanding will be found, if at all.

Striving for success makes demands and requires the assumption of burdens. Priorities must be set and adhered to. Sacrifices must be made. Success usually is a long-term process, one that only 'arrives' after a lot of extremely hard work, most often after much frustration and many disappointments.

Maintaining success requires everything that striving for success does, with the additional burden of the responsibility for keeping what has been won. The successful person is much like a runner on a treadmill when the treadmill keeps going faster and faster. Just to 'keep up' requires great and ever-greater effort.

Success may result in the loss of personal 'freedom.' The duties, responsibilities and demands of success have ways of 'running' the successful person's life, rather than the other way around. The demands can be deadly, as the rates of personal problems, including suicide among the successful, attest.

There you have it. There are powerful and understandable reasons for the dual fears of success and of failure. While each of us who finds her- or himself paralyzed by the affliction may have a different configuration of reasons, common forces are inherent in the problem. Whatever the reasons, the results are the same. Fear. Inertia. Paralysis. Procrastination. Addictions. A focus on anything and everything that takes the person - for however long - away from the path toward success or failure.

Can the dual fears be conquered? Perhaps, but not easily. I will offer some suggestions a bit later in this essay. The resistance to overcoming both fears or one of the fears sufficiently to end the stalemate, is both the enigma and the challenge. Awareness of the nature and the roots of the problem should lead to the solution. Once aware, why is it that a person cannot merely change her or his thinking and behavior to end the problem? Why are people that are caught in the dilemma so helpless?

The powers that hold a person in the inertia zone are much like the powers that hold the procrastoholic, the alcoholic or any addict. Mark Twain said it well when he said something like, "It is easy to quit smoking; I have done it a thousand times." It is just as easy for the alcoholic to say, "I'll never take a drink again." Or for the procrastoholic to say, "Tomorrow I will set aside my procrastination and 'just do it.'"

Here is the crux of the problem, the center of the enigma, the heart of the dilemma. The best predictor of future thought and behavior is past thought and behavior. Many of us find the pain of inertia more tolerable than what the unknown realms of success or of failure may bring.

What is known to us is more comfortable - no matter how uncomfortable that may be - than that which the unknown holds. The promises to change dissolve in the reality of the power of the twin fears. The alcoholic goes back to drink. The nicotine addict returns to cigarettes. The procrastoholic fritters away her or his time - doing almost anything except that which would lead to success or, yes, to failure.

Hell? Yes, it is a form of hell. In one sense, it is a self-imposed hell that is created and maintained by the mystery of the human being's inability to do that which intellectually the person knows she or he 'should' do or 'wants' to do. It is the hell that stems from knowing that there are things over which we have little or no effective control.

Does this mean that there is no hope? No! I must believe there is hope. The history of many famous writers is further evidence of hope, because that history is replete with evidence that even some of the most fearful writers overcame their twin fears and moved on to success.

While each one has to find her or his own way out of the inertia, here are some suggestions: Write. Write at least daily. Write 'anything' that you can write. With writing, comes confidence. Writing loosens the bonds of fear driven inertia. Prepare. When I have the most trouble with the twin demons of fear of success and of failure, it is often because I have not fully prepared myself for the writing task. This is true even for fiction writing, where the research for settings, technology . . . the entire content needs to be fact-based, or at least have some anchor in the body of knowledge.

Talk about your fears with family, friends or even a professional. Bring your fears out of their 'closet' and into the open. Openness and discussion can unseat the balance of those fears.

Maybe, just maybe, I can begin to overcome the inertia of the twin fears now that I have written about them and my procrastination and my Hell. I am hoping it might work for me. Reading my article might help you overcome your fears.

When he was satisfied that he had 'done his best with it,' George read it over carefully, printed it on the computer's printer and sat down to read it one final time.

Writer's Block

Several weeks went by. He continued to read the piece once in a while. The writer's block did not loosen its grip. If anything, his procrastination grew deeper and more pervasive.

'Why,' he asked himself, 'am I plagued by these long periods of writer's block. I have read like a fiend for years, I have taken writers' classes and attended writers conferences and I have been in writers groups. Still, I think about writing more than I actually write.'

He thought on, 'When I was drinking, I can't remember than I ever had writer's block. No matter how sauced I was I could still write. Didn't get much published. Didn't even finish most of the projects I started. But, boy, could I write: day and night; weekends and holidays; you name it and that's when I wrote. The storylines just kept coming. Sometimes it was only a few lines. Sometimes it was a hundred pages. Whew! Hasn't been like that for years; not since I sobered up and started going to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.'

'Maybe, just maybe, I can control the drinking and do the writing like in the old days. I have been 'dry' long enough. I know I can control the drinking this time. Two other guys in the group control their drinking. It's worth a try. If it doesn't work, I will just go back on the wagon and back to the AA meetings.'

'Something has to work,' he mused. 'I can't take that stupid day job any longer. I have enough money saved for six months of writing, especially if I keep my nose to the computer and stay away from all of the things that have been interfering with the writing, things like dining out, going to movies and reading crummy books, books written by hacks.'

With that said, he put on his jacket and walked out into the warm winter sunshine. It was January in southern Arizona and the entire area was in the midst of a serious drought. The upside of that meant that his winter heating bills were negligible. The downside was that he had to spend far more on water, just to keep some of the prized plants in his yard half-alive.

He drove to the supermarket and bought several bottles of inexpensive wine. Wine was not his first choice, but it was the least expensive. And, as he drank, he knew from experience that it would not take much wine to keep him 'just drunk enough' to break the writer's block.

Breaking Writers Block

When he got back in his house, he got into his most comfortable clothes, sat in his most comfortable chair and slowly drank a glass of the dark, red wine. He could feel the wine in his stomach. With the second glass, he felt the first flush of a drunk spreading through his body and his mind. When the second glass was empty, he got up from his chair, went to the computer and began to search through his old storylines for 'the one' that would fire his imagination and kick-start his creative processes.

He found one that sparked his interest. He loaded it from the hard disk onto the screen, scrolled through the meager body of the piece twice and began to write. He barely stirred for two hours. The piece 'grew' to several hundred words longer than before.

He followed the advice of one of his writing instructors and paid little attention to correct punctuation, spelling or grammar. He would go back and pay attention to the word processing program's punctuation, spell-check and grammar checking features later. His total focus was that of putting words on the screen. He saved often but did little in the way of reading, reflecting or evaluating his work.

Page after page poured from his mind as he periodically poured himself another glass of wine. With ever-increasing frequency, he had to stop writing to go to the bathroom. He paid little attention to anything but his writing. He did not eat regularly or with anything approaching his usual enthusiasm for food. He barely slept the first night.

By the end of the second day, he believed that he had a 'finished' eight thousand-word story. He set it aside without going through the process of checking his punctuation, spelling and grammar. 'Later,' he whispered. 'All of that can come later.' He did not even read it to see if it was a coherent, consistent piece.

He staggered off to bed and slept for ten hours. When he woke up, it was with a definite hangover. 'Better get a little of the 'hair of the dog,'' he thought. He drank his first glass of wine, went to the toilet, took a shower, ate a scant breakfast and went back to work.

He selected a second storyline from the long list on the computer's hard drive. He went over the details of the story in his mind. It was one he had high hopes for when he first got the idea. But, after only a few hundred words, the writer's block set in and he went on to other ideas or, as was more often the case, he found 'everything' to do but write.

Once again, he filled the computer screen with words, sentences, paragraphs and pages. He paid little attention to it, but he filled and then emptied his wine glasses with increasing frequency. He had to stop writing to go once more to the supermarket for a new stock of wine. He bought several cases.

Lost in the Sauce

Back at the computer, he set to work. For the next four days, he set an almost frenzied pace of typing. He drank heavily but with little apparent impact on his creative 'rush.' Any pretense of a balanced diet, or of exercise, or of regular sleep was almost completely abandoned. He ignored the phone; messages piled up and went unanswered.

His older sister stopped by to check on him. "Why don't you answer your phone or return you messages, George?" she asked.

"You know how I am when the writing is going well," he responded.

"Well, you might take a little time to shower and shave," she suggested. "This house smells like a winery. I thought you were off the stuff for good. What caused you to fall off the wagon?"

"I didn't 'fall off the wagon' as you put it." He looked away from her accusing stare. "I deliberately chose to drink . . . to control my drinking, that is. It helps me with the writing. It frees me from the shackles of non-creativity. It only takes a little before I sit down and the writing flows."

"Humph, I've heard that before. That's what you thought the last time . . . really, every time. Why is this different?"

"It's different this time because I thought it through. Because I am in control. Because I am 'using it' instead of 'abusing it.' That's why.'

"So, when are you going to quit? When are you going to be through with your project so you can go back on the wagon?"

"Not sure. Maybe in a few days, or weeks, or months. The time is not important. What is important is that I am in control and the wine is relaxing me just enough so I have conquered the writer's block. I have already finished one story and I am nearly done with another. I have three more story lines on the computer that I can't wait to get to."

"I hope you're right, this time. Well, let me know if I can do anything for you. Since you don't have time to do it yourself, you really should get a cleaning woman to come in at least once a week. It wouldn't hurt to air the place out during the warm part of the day either."

"Thanks, sis. I'll take some time away from the writing and do the housework myself. I need just that sort of break once in a while. And, I'll take you up on the suggestion and open the house up each afternoon, if it gets warm enough outside."

"George, please keep in touch. We get worried when you 'hole up' like this. It isn't altogether healthy. No point in ruining your health. You'll need your health and stamina when you become rich and famous from your creative rush. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, sis. I'll be okay. You'll see. Three or four more stories and I will send a batch to Will."

"Will? I thought you and he were on the 'outs.' When did you get back on his good side?"

"Will will forgive and forget once he reads my first round of pieces. He is in business to make money and to help his clients and to help his oldest and best graduate school buddy."

"Maybe. He seemed pretty set against you and your work the last time I got a note from him."

"Water under the bridge. It will all be sweetness and light when he sees that I am back on track with my writing . . . when he gets a gander at the level of my creativity."

"Goodbye, George. I hope you don't use hackneyed clichés in your writing the way you do when we talk."

"Goodbye, sis," he offered as she went out the door.

George poured himself a glass of wine, sat back down at the computer and went to work.

Over the next several weeks, he cranked out several more short stories. He continued to drink. He failed to eat either regularly or with any attention to a balanced diet. He abandoned any pretext of personal hygiene. The house was a mess. It smelled like cheap wine. He smelled like most homeless winos.

Writer's Block Redux

Late one night, after he finished the seventh story, he staggered off to bed. The next morning, he could not get up. He lay in bed and tried to find the motivation and the energy. Neither came. His craving for a drink of wine became acute. He rolled out of bed and crashed to the floor. He crawled over to a table that held a half-empty glass of wine. With great effort, he pulled himself up far enough so he could grasp the glass. He spilled most of the wine on the rug, but he did manage a few gulps. He began to shake.

The wine revived him enough so he was able to stagger out to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. He found some 'ancient' orange juice in the fridge. He opened a cupboard and found a jar with some honey in it. He poured most of the honey in a glass and added some of the orange juice. With difficulty, he put the glass in the microwave and heated the mixture.

When the honey-orange mixture was warm, he took the glass out of the microwave, stirred the mixture vigorously with a spoon, raised the glass unsteadily to his lips and drank. By then, the coffee was ready. He slopped in three-quarters of a cup and burned his mouth trying to drink some.

He ran some cold water from the kitchen faucet into the coffee, stirred the coffee and drank it.

Imposing on Friendship

He began to feel somewhat better but he was still shaking and unsteady on his feet. He sat down at the computer and began to compose a letter to his friend, Will. George was the principle reason that Will graduated from the master's program in English at the state university. Will went on to become a successful literary agent after struggling several years as a writer. The company Will founded was one of the most noted literary agent companies in the nation.

George struggled with the letter. He found that he could not frame the sentences he wanted . . . could not come up with the phrases that he felt were necessary to accompany his stories. After several failed attempts, he managed to write a letter that met his approval.

He put the letter on top of the stories and packed the lot in a shipping box. He addressed the box to Will personally. Later, he recovered enough to drive to the post office, to stand in line and to get the box in the mail.

On the way home, he stopped in the supermarket and bought two gallons of orange juice and a large jar of honey. Honey mixed in orange juice was the drink that the alcohol recovery unit used. When George got back to his house, he drank several glasses of the honey and orange juice mix and a lot more coffee.

It didn't work. He began to shake uncontrollably. To relieve the shaking, he drank several glasses of wine. That didn't work either. He dialed the president of his AA chapter.

Several weeks later, George was back on the wagon. His stint at the alcohol recovery unit was painful but successful. While he was away in the recovery unit, his sister had the apartment professionally cleaned and thoroughly aired.

He got a letter in the mail. It was from Will. He opened it and read:

Dear George,

I received your recent shipment of stories. After I read them over, I 'farmed them out' to two of my most trusted readers. Neither knew that the other had the stories. I wanted to get independent evaluations because I did not want our previous 'disagreement' to cloud my own view of the stories.

George, I have never forgotten - nor will I ever forget - how much you did for me in graduate school. You were the primary reason I got through. I owe you a great debt - one that I will never be able to repay fully - to you for all that you did for me.

However, both of the readers concurred almost exactly with my evaluation of the seven works. They felt and I agreed that the stories are just not up to the standards that the editors we work with require. I am not talking about the legions of punctuation, spelling and grammar problems. Those were correctable with our word processing program.

Rather, I am talking about the problems with the level of demonstrated creativity, almost without exception, in each of the stories and across the total batch.

The stories evoked a feeling that I had encountered stories with similar problems from you before. So, I checked back through your files and confirmed what I was sure of.

George, I hate to ask. But I must. You aren't back on the sauce, are you?

Kindest regards, /s/ Will