Analyzing My Motivations to Write

The following are responses to questions that I came across in a book about writing:

As a creative outlet, writing keeps my brain and spirit synchronized. Sometimes my brain is very active with cognitive busyness, but it does so at the expense of my languishing spirit. At other times, my spirit lifts as if on wings of a fairy while logic struggles in vain to be productive.

Writing is like doing a puzzle or solving a riddle; it's about making the pieces fit. Writing fulfills my need to have a project in the works. To complete a project would create a deficit; I don't like feeling that I don't have something in the works. So as long as I don't complete anything, I don't feel deprived.

My motivations for writing include the hope that readers would find a new way of thinking, be touched on an emotional level, would laugh, and/or be entertained or motivated to action as a result of reading what I've written.

Regarding the past, I wanted to be an "author" when I was a little girl; I always said "author" rather than writer because I thought an author creates, and a writer "just writes." Oh, if only I had been correct that a writer "just writes." Or maybe in that simple view that children have, I really was correct. My current delays, hesitation, and procrastination in writing are because I've forgotten that a writer "just writes."

Regarding the future, in response to the question, "What do you do for a living?" I would like to say that I "just write."

I don't know that I have expectations for fame or money. If I truly believed in the attainability of those goals, I would be writing more as well as more often. I wouldn't turn down money, but I don't think I want fame. I would have at one time, but now I think I'm content to sit back and watch others thrust themselves into the limelight.

I don't think I write in order to work through any lurking demons , but I do find that insight occurs as a natural by-product of writing. But, no, I don't think that's my purpose in writing.

It's becoming a bit clearer to me that I would like to make money from writing. I think there is a certain reluctance, a Bohemian mindset, that wants to deny this, but given the options of fame, money, or processing trauma, I'll choose money.

Also, I do like the reactions of others to what I'm writing. That's probably a part of why I wanted to write a blog. Sometimes when I write, I'm writing "to a reader." Sometimes the reader is me.

In summary, my reasons for writing are 1. as a creative outlet 2. having a project to work on 3. touching others 4. getting others' reactions 5. money

It would be more pragmatic, if I reversed the priority of my motivation to write: 1. money 2. getting others' reactions 3. touching others 4. having a project to work on, and 5. as a creative outlet.

Interestingly, at the center of each list is the desire to touch others. So, there you have it. If you have read this far, you must be at least a little touched, one way or the other.

Inexplicable Indignation

Occasionally, I have seen someone "blow" for no apparent reason. Things were going along fairly well, at least in my mind, and then "the blower" initiates the inexplicable indignation with the words "I cannot believe this." Obviously, the blower does believe it or believes enough of it to become the black hole that sucks the energy out of anyone within hearing distance. Next, the person spins around asking "Do you believe this crap?"

This scenario has become a common social interaction especially in the workplace. In the workplace, there is a captive audience (itself, a universe of potential black holes) and a lot of crap.

I usually respond to the "blower" in mild support, nodding and uh-huh-ing while hanging on to my mouse. So long as I have my hand wrapped around the mouse, I am connected and safe by virtue of numbers. Everyone else in the world who has a hand wrapped around a mouse at that moment is my ally. The real danger can occur when the blower cuts a co-worker away from the pack and herds that person toward the hallway.

In the hallway, not only is the co-worker alienated from allies and, therefore, vulnerable, but now other energies will be sucked out into the hallway contributing to the toxic mass and all hell breaks loose.

This may very well be the true nature of hell: toxic gasses of inexplicable indignation.

Hey you, you Haiku

Affirmations hope

Endure the groan of winter

Leaves in denial.

Loud librarian
Militant or messenger
Chastises children.

One of the things that differentiates the working class from the capitalists in Twisted Roots is where they spend their money. For example, there was more than one place to buy a tire and where you went said something about who you were.

A member of the working class would buy their tires from the Rural Roundup which had tires for every size vehicle including tractors and combines. If you were neither working nor had class, you bought a tire that would last only as long as the piece of crap riding on the tire. (Here I'm referring to the car, not the driver.) That kind of tire could be gotten just about anywhere, such as at a rummage sale or, if you were lucky, you might find one discarded in the alley behind some of the better homes in town. If you were really lucky and a little loose with your morals, that tire might be inside of a garage whose door had been carelessly left open.

However, if you were a member of the capitalists in town, you would call up the Tire Emporium and they would send a man to change your tire at the location where you need it. Then about 30 days later, the Emporium would send out an invoice for the cost of the tire and the labor. Although there might be an advantage in the convenience, the tires at the Tire Emporium cost about twice what the same tire would cost at the Rural Roundup.

Gil Garrison, the mayor, managed to find combine convenience with savings when he found himself stranded behind the Historical Society with not one, but two flat tires. It was unlikely that the tires had just gone flat on their own, but even without the slash marks, Gil might have been experiencing a little paranoia due to the fact that it was late at night, the Historical Society had been closed for the last five hours, and the Laurie, the Society's youthful director, lived on the second floor of the old house. He had to think of someone that he could call that had a few of his own skeletons in the proverbial closet in case questions might arise. Gil was relieved when Tom from Terry's Corner answered the phone and was willing to bring one of his own spare tires over to the Historical Society.

There was hardly room for a pair of slippers in Tom's closet.

Charlie's Column

The large house now occupied by the Historical Society had small panes of stained glass in the second floor windows. After dark, the flashing lights of the railroad barrier across the street made the stained glass twinkle like a kaleidoscope whose barrel was being turned by a hyperactive child.

Charlie could see the reflection of the colors on the computer monitor as he scrolled through the database. Laurie, the director of the Society (though she had questionable credentials) had developed a database that was supposed to be a geneological reference for the town's citizens. Having sent three or four smoke rings into the air, Charlie put his cigar on the edge of the table and tugged at the cuffs of his white starched jacket.

He had set up yet another column on the database for a family characteristic that hadn't occured to Laurie, but to Charlie, this particular characteristic was of intense, professional interest. To convince Laurie of its inclusion, he had rationalized the additional of the column as important in identifying people in the old family photographs that had been donated to the Society. It apparently hadn't occurred to Laurie (or she chose not to pursue the issue further), so she didn't ask how knowing the dominant hair color of the family would be relevant in identifying their ancestors in what were black and white pictures.

Her lack of interest was fortunate for Charley who had his own agenda for knowing the dominant hair color of the citizen's families. With only a small fraction of the families included in his own column, he already had noticed a pattern that might be of interest to Gil, the mayor. Or not. In either case, working on the database made him privy to the argument that took place on this particular evening. That argument would be of extreme interest to the mayor.

Mayor of Twisted Roots

At least, no one was trying to cut Charlie's nuts off. Charley, could be aloof and particular about certain things that no one else in his barber shop or elsewhere seemed to care about, but still he was respected. Some folks even liked him in a lukewarm sort of way.



On the other hand, Gil, the mayor, was always in anticipation of being castigated. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't please some of the people all the time and none of the people some of the time. What got him re-elected over and over again was that he was the mayor in a population of really lazy folks.



It wasn't a physical kind of lazy; unemployment was actually very low in Twisted Roots, unlike most of the rest of the Midwest. There were some folks that held jobs that shouldn't have been working in the first place. One example is Peg-leg Porticia who worked at the lumber yard. You got to give her some credit, not meaning to be disrespectful to the physically-challenged. If a man wanted a twelve foot two-by-four, Porticia would hobble all the way out to the back building to fetch it. But once she was out there, she had to radio back for some assistance because she couldn't climb the ladder, let alone bring the wood back down with her. Anyone within fifty feet of the radio base, if they could make it out over the scratchy static, could hear her call for "customer assistance." It wasn't the customer that needed assistance at all; most folks with both legs could have got their own wood. Still, Porticia insisted on making the attempt explaining that "laws and statues" wouldn't permit customers to fetch their own lumber. No one questioned what statue she might be referring to and what the aforementioned piece of stone might have to do with fetching a piece of wood.



So, there it was. Most of the citizens of Twisted Roots were a lot like Peg-leg Portia except that their disability didn't extend itself to the physical. This, in turn, made Gil's perpetual re-elections likely to continue.



Gil probably got his intelligence passed down to him from the owners of the now-defunct coal mines that originally settled in and developed the area. Most the investors in the coal mines had made their money there and then moved to Chicago to build their homes along the lake. Only Gil's great-grandfather, Albert Garrison, had felt it his civic duty to stay in Twisted Roots. Besides, Grandpa Garrison had invested a lot of his coal money in cattle and a meat-packing plant that employed the surviving coal miners and then their descendants.



Those descendants built their modest homes on the ground above the coal mines, drank the river water despite the runoff of the the waste products from the meat-packing plant. They weren't any new families moving in so most of the ones that lived there had a really close relationship that replenished the town's population.



Not much else needs to be said to explain the nature of the citizen's laziness.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like a Medicine...

You know I couldn't read a serious article without wanting to inject some humor into it. So here goes ...

I finished reading an article titled "Is Laughter the Best Medicine or Any Medicine at All?" that was presented to the annual meeting of the Western Psychological Association. You can read it for yourself if you want at http://www.psichi.org/pubs/articles/article_81.asp

The author attempts to clarify the relationship between health and laughter, if there is one, particularly in response to a mythology that has evolved based on the 1960's experiences of Norman Cousins. Cousins had a serious illness and he found some relief in a wide range of positive emotions, including laughter. Apparently, some of what Cousin said about the therapeutic effect of humor, creativity, confidence, etc. has been distorted, giving some people the idea that Cousins laughed his way to a cure of a serious illness which was not the case.

What was most interesting to me in this article were the various attempts to operationally define terms such as humor trait vs. humor state, laughter, mirth, etc. Also, there was a mention in the article of several "humor tests" used to measure whatever it is that humor actually is. The tests included the Sense of Humor Questionnaire that includes subscales such as Habitual Sensitivity to Humorous Messages and Habitual Tendency to Permit or Suppress Emotional Impulses of Joy. Then, there is the Trait Cheerfulness Inventory and the Coping Humor Scale.

Amazingly ...

the author didn't find it necessary to define laughter as she felt that one either laughs or doesn't laugh. However, I disagree. So, of course, I decided to operationally define laughter for myself.

Disconcerting Lines of Development resulting in Lactose Expulsion via the Olfactory Orifice:

blowing milk out of your nose caused by an unanticipated burst of laughter.

Post-Learned-Autonomic-Response Spasms of the Diaphragm: hiccups after an intense bout of laughter.

Short-term Stoppage of Spasms due to Asphyxiation: laughing so hard you can't breathe.

Spastic Disposition Resulting in Descent of Fleshy Protuberance: laughing my ass off.

I will continue my own less-than-serious empirical investigations and hope to share a few more definitions. I'm also hopeful of designing a test or two to measure laughter. It should be the equivalent of a sobriety test except that you are forbidden to leave your house if you don't fail the test.

In the interest of furthering research, I hope you will share as well.