Posts by Mike Swift
Mask (Tragedy and Comedy) by Anderson Mancini, Flickr CC
Writers, or artists and creatives in general, seem to be wired differently than the average person. We have the innate ability to feel more deeply; to become fully immersed in the entire spectrum of emotions – from the fiery depths of agony to the glorious heights of ecstasy – then reveal our experiences in such a way that a mere whisper of our happiness, or a whimper from the pain, is as much as most souls can handle.
It’s a blessing that often makes me curse.
Take, for instance, my most recent struggle. I’m not prone to bouts of sadness, but after my mother died a couple of summers ago, my cheerful state of mind steadily declined until, last March, I finally dropped my basket. I slid into such a deep depression, I was unable to write much of anything – hell, do much of anything – for most of the year. It was the hardest period of my life.
I Haven’t Got Time for the Pain
Shortly after her death, I tried to avoid the grief, to soften the blow I knew would come. I joined a support group; it didn’t take. I’m too empathetic. Instead of coping with one loss, each month I lived the heartaches of a half-dozen or more. I lasted about four meetings before dropping out.
I sought paid, professional help and even considered antidepressants, but decided on a more holistic approach: mega-doses of Omega-3’s. I won’t sugarcoat it (or maybe I should have); that was some pretty nasty stuff. By month’s end, I was burping raw tuna and attracting stray cats. We considered other alternatives.
Next came a Mindfulness-Based Therapeutic Lifestyle course to combat the Emotional Logic (“I’m depressed, therefore I must be a wuss.”) that Jan O’Hara discussed so proficiently in her article here. I learned how to breathe. Deeply. And how to do the downward- and upward-facing dog. And be a beautiful lotus flower floating in the stream. But deep inside, I was drowning.
By the time March rolled around, I’d lost all ability to focus; to produce. My days were spent in and out of bed, either under the covers crippled by sadness, or pacing the floor riddled with anxiety. My stomach was a bundle of nerves and I couldn’t eat. I dropped almost thirty pounds. Enjoyment of all things was gone.
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Picture yourself in a strange coffee haven, sans plasticine porters with looking glass ties. It’s San Diego in the mid-1990’s and, although smoking indoors has been banned for a little over a year, the lingering haze of ten thousand clove cigarettes gives everything the feel of a White Diamonds commercial. I’m at the counter ordering a round for my buddies when our high-maintenance friend arrives, out of breath and late, again.
“What do you want?” I mouth the words across the room so as not to disturb a reading of The Vagina Monologues.
“A caramel macchiato, 2% organic, extra-shot, extra-hot, extra-whip, with three Splendas and a dusting of dark chocolate,” he mouths back.
I shoot him an “okay” sign with my finger and thumb, turn to the Liz Taylor impersonator and say, “Make that five regular coffees.”
We’re there for our weekly game of Balderdash, a competition of intellect, creativity, and bullshittery –- the perfect distraction for the writerly sect. If you’ve never heard of it, in a nutshell, players pick a word, write their “definitions,” read them along with the correct answer, then vote on which is real. Points are awarded to those who choose the correct definition and to those whose definitions are chosen.
I open with this vignette because among that group was my best friend, Jeff, whom I could never fool. While the others fell prey to my pseudo-Websterisms time and again, every attempt at tricking him was not only dashed, it was balderdashed.
“How do you always know?” I asked one night after a particularly grueling tournament ended with the announcement they had run out of everything but decaf.
“Yours sound like you.”
“Huh? Whaddya mean they sound like me?” I mean, seriously. Pick a word –- any word -– balderdash, for example. Does this not sound like it was ripped straight from the pages of the OED?
Balderdash: (n) the dash with less hair than the other dash.
I rest my case.
Then again, maybe I rest Jeff’s case. “It’s the way you put things,” he continued, “the phrasing, the word choices, the style –- the everything. Sure, they may sound like dictionary entries, but dictionary entries you wrote — even when they’re the correct definitions — if that makes any sense.”
Personally, I think it’s because I typed them.
And that, my friends, was the day I discovered my words had a voice behind them, and that voice was distinguishably mine.
The Authorial Voice
We’ve been celebrating diversity on the pages of Writer Unboxed, and there’s nothing more unique to a writer than their authorial voice. But what is it, exactly, and how can you find yours? Is it the narrative voice? A character voice? The voices in my head? Yes, and no…and yes.
Read MoreMike credits his whimsy to the magical powers of his rainbow socks, hand-knitted by blind leprechauns from the manes of free-range unicorns.
Therese here to introduce you to today’s guest, M.L. Swift. Mike has been a follower of Writer Unboxed for quite some time, but it wasn’t until I heard him read his fiction at the Un-Conference — work he’d produced just that day — that I realized he’s also a powerhouse writer. What a unique way with words he has, what a clear voice, and what a quick mind with its quirky and spot-on sense of humor. Of course I wanted you to get to know him a little better.
In his own words:
M.L. is a lover of words who squanders away his afternoons arranging them into sentences which, when combined, resemble fiction. A caregiver for over ten years, he has written several articles for The Alzheimer’s Reading Room, and plans a novel on his experience. He lives in the Florida panhandle with his two dogs, Rameses and Buster, and spends his nights fighting a losing battle to reclaim his side of the bed.
Follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and Google+, and learn more about him on his website.
And now for the main attraction…
Six Things Every Writer Needs to Succeed
When Therese asked if I’d like to scratch out an article for Writer Unboxed, I literally — in the most figurative sense of the word — stood up, turned around, and knocked the gold bricks out of my chair. Did I read her note correctly? Would I like to write an essay for the website I’ve worshipped for over three years, and — e’en if for a day, ere I’m shown the door fore’er — dispense Parker-esque aphorisms to the most respected minds in the industry, while at the same time, make a complete and utter fool of myself? Would I? Would I? I pounced on the keyboard: “Does a bear sh—?” Wait. Breathe. Backspace and delete. Respond as if it were as commonplace as “You want fries with that?”
“Why, yes, Therese, that would be lovely.” There you go. Classy. Mature. Professional. Kiss, kiss; hug, hug. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
By dinnertime, my euphoric ride on the Cumulonimbus9 had ended with a belly-flop to earth, leaving me stranded in the middle of nowhere, dusting off rainbows and gnawing my thumbnail like a piece of beef jerky. “Mike, what in the world were you thinking?” Actually, if you really want to get down and velveteen about it, I used a much more colorful, less Hogwarts-friendly expression.
You see, that very morning, Sharon Bially had written a post listing six criteria for an impressive writer’s resumé, and according to the stats, I was batting zero. Even worse, I didn’t foresee three of the six items making my five-, ten-, or twenty-year plan. Her suggestions, in order of my probable attainment (from “most likely” to “you’ve got to be kidding”) included:
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