Creating Meaning

It was about one in the morning last night, and we were lying in bed, our glasses on the night stand. I’d just recovered from a fit of that late-night laughter, the kind that’s infectious and life-affirming. We do this just about every night, and it seems like regardless of what time it is, we have to laugh first. I paused and looked solemnly at the man I share my life with and said, “I’m going to start writing short stories again.”

I said this, because for a fleeting moment, I had had a really good idea for a short story anthology. Of course, this morning, I only have the faintest thread of what that is, and I’m afraid if I pull on it too hard, that thread will snap. After settling into a dark funk over the past few days, weeks, possibly months, I feel like I’m finally coming out of it. Slowly rising out of icy water, the kind that makes it hard to move or feel your own fingers, like trying to punch someone in a dream – suddenly your body remembers that you’re lying in a bed covered in blankets, but your mind doesn’t.

Admittedly, it’s a weird time to suddenly be hopeful and happy. We’re in the midst of a national depression, and the grim reality is that people everywhere are losing their jobs, or have been out of work and can’t find new work. We’re repeatedly told that it’s getting better, but plenty of people only know that better’s a word and not a whole lot more.

That’s not to say that I feel guilty about my new found joi de vive. It’s important to have and I’m grateful for it. In many ways, I’ve lost my creativity over the past few years. It’s gone away and hasn’t come back since. I stopped writing, I stopped drawing. I stopped painting. I stopped doing anything that was creative at all. I’ve only just started reading again. How did this happen and why did it happen?

I don’t really have the answers for why I suddenly stopped being entirely me, or why that part of myself got cut off and squashed, but I do know that those days are over. I will start writing stories again. I will start blurring the line between cold reality and the fantastic. You know why?

Because I recently read a piece about Alison Uttley, a children’s author who’s diaries have recently been published. In this article, the following passage:

They show the reality of the author who, despite becoming the second woman ever to graduate from Manchester University – and in physics – believed in fairies all her life. “It’s an amazing paradox,” said Judd. “She believed in fairies and in time travel – that people can move in between different worlds. She was both a completely practical, scientific person, and would also talk about ghosts.”

I realized that while I’m not a physicist, or even in any scientific fields, that certainly describes me, right down to the time travel bit. Most of all, though, I want to be that kind of mean old lady who’s full of rage about other children’s authors and illustrators. If there’s one thing to get snobby about, it absolutely should be children’s books. There are way too many crap ones out there, and only a few handfuls of truly awesome ones.

I’m really not being sarcastic. The children are our future, and when we give them shit books, it just means that the return on our investment will be very, very low.

5 Comments »

Yahoo and woo woo!! Hooray and yippeee! I can’t wait to read ‘em.

Comment by Your Mom — August 11, 2009 @ 9:50 am

Yay, Alex!!!

Comment by wixer — August 12, 2009 @ 6:24 am

What does joi de vive mean?

Comment by Brian — August 18, 2009 @ 10:34 am

Joy of Life. It just sounds better in French.

Comment by alex — August 18, 2009 @ 10:37 am

Weeee! Can’t wait to read them! Keep us posted.

Comment by Red — August 21, 2009 @ 8:58 am

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