A Theory of Life and Death and Writing

This is my theory. It is unproven. It is not dogmatic. It is not based on any religious theory. It makes semi-logical assumptions. It speculates about life and death. And, for me, about why writers write.

Zero is the moment of birth. The Positive Finite Years begin at birth. These are the years of knowing. We learn how to live. We become self-aware. We become other-aware.

Then, we die.

The Negative Infinity Years are the years of not knowing. They are the ultimate unknown. We do not know them. We are not self-aware. Nor are we aware of anything. Death erases knowing.

But, let's go back. Here's what we know about the Positive Finite Years:

We must survive. As part of survival, we must learn skills. We must work. We must learn to interact, to be with others. There is suffering involved. There is love. We must process pain and rejection while also experiencing joy and the mystery of the unknown, aware that these years are precious and finite.

Here's what we know about the Negative Infinity:

In the Infinity, we are not required to survive. We do not need people or skills. There is no suffering. There is no love. We are not required to process pain or contemplate mystery. These years go on unendingly.

Expressed in another way:

Finite Years = Survival + Suffering + Love
Infinite Years = No survival + No Suffering + No Love

Which is nirvana?

Fear plays a factor. We FEAR in the Finite Years. We fear everything:

• lack of resources
• bodily harm
• betrayal
• rejection
• success
• failure
• the unknown

But, there is no fear in the Infinite Years.

How do we take fear out of the Finite Years?
Some use dogma and creeds, hence religion.
Some use reason, hence intellect.
Some use science, hence research.

Our blindspot is always fear.
Fear, I believe, can be defeated by wonder.

What if ... ?
Wonder is our asking, what if?

What if ... we lived forever?
What if ... no one ever starved?
What if ... racism didn't exist?
What if ... I could play the piano?
What if ... we could travel in space?
What if ... my neighbor and I got along?
What if ... there is life on another planet?
What if ... the Infinite Negative doesn't exist?

What ifs take away some of the unknowing and fear and replace it with wonder. I know I must use my mind now. I must maximize the what ifs. And I do this, partly, by writing. I write by asking what ifs. Not large, existential questions, like in this post, but smaller questions. What if one person loved another in this story? What if it didn't work out? And, then again, what if it did?

Obsession is A Writer's Best Friend

When all else fails, obsess.

The heart of the matter is all else. I've bargained with myself. Reframed. Thrown fluffy pillows on the "writing" chair. Switched laptops (not purchased a new one, mind you; just shuffled a few around from underneath couches and such). Bought a new pencil and notebook. Recommitted. But I can't seem to finish the last damn book in my series. So, I have to obsess.

An incentive? Book cover mockup.

Writers who obsess get shit written.

Writers who obsess don't do the dishes (see last post).

Writers who obsess toss out every social invitation, forgo family obligations, lose a few bills, banish the 13-yr-old Golden Retriever to the backyard, ignore text messages, and don't see people for weeks on end. They grow hair where it's not supposed to. They drink too much wine and wear stinky socks (because y'all know I hate sorting them, and I may already do these things regardless of my word count). They forget they have kids to feed. They certainly don't check Facebook. They also don't blog about writer's block. For the obsessed, nothing gets done but the writing.

I NEED to obsess.

Okay, so I wrote 350 words on an airplane using my smartphone's "notepad" app while the folks next to me thought I was a little touched, trying to type a novel into a tiny damn screen on a smartphone with my index fingers. 350 words doesn't count. 350 words is paltry. I need 30,000.

I NEED to push this book out of my brain. Out of my life.

I NEED to obsess.

Hello, Dishes

Thank god I waited until this morning to start a new post. Writing after drinking wine on a weekend night when the most exciting thing on the agenda is emptying the dishwasher probably isn't a good idea. Those are the times the f-bombs lob liberally from the ol' noggin. My goal here isn't to f-bomb you. We have enough violence in the world without me adding to it.

Ironically, I'm reading "The Book of Joy," a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu. The book is based on a week-long conversation between the two friends facilitated by a writer, who wrote a book about their discussion. A friend suggested it to me. Though it may sound ludicrous, these guys would make a good morning show. The Lama/Tutu Coffee Hour. Reset your life with advice from the enlightened.

Far from it, I can't claim to be enlightened yet. And, generally speaking, my thoughts assume bad patterns. Negative outcomes. Dwellings on the past. Doggy downers. Basically, a rewinding shitshow (sorry about the vulgarity, couldn't get through this post without one). The Lama/Tutu duo advise that in order to overcome the negativity: think more of others than yourself. And meditate (if you're a lama/Buddhist) or pray (if you're an archibishop/Christian). One main focus should be on compassion. And, in a chemical combo of these two -- caring and compassion -- you'll be a better, happier person.

I'll buy that. Let me take an ohm break. Ah, there, now on with the post.

Do you have enough?

Back to the mundane dishes. To reframe, the Lama/Tutu way would reconsider the dishes as a representation of abundance. I may have a pile of dirties, but in reality, the dishes show that I've been able to feed myself, my kids, the occasional doe-eyed pet. The dishes also show that there's an element of leisure regarding when I actually need to clean them, because I have a machine that can do the hard work in less than an hour. I don't have to spend a soggy session soaping, rinsing, and drying those dishes, because the dishwasher does most of the work. What a miracle. Most of the world doesn't have this luxury. So, in many ways, the dishes, piled high, crusty and gross, aren't deleterious at all. They are symbolic of privilege and the vast resources available to me.

That certainly puts a different light on those dishes. Does it put a different light on my life?

Yes ... and no. Living in a modern culture, all the trappings of cultural expectations (usually, consumer items) make feeling contented an impossible ideal. How can I feel contented when I don't have X, X, or X, like my neighbor, or co-worker, or that beautiful model in the ad? Admittedly, I consume far less of the "false feed of need" by not watching commercial television or clicking on every idiotic Facebook ad, but it's there, nonetheless. The message is loud and clear: You won't be happy until you do/have/become THIS (insert car, vacation, relationship, book, method, status symbol, coffee grinder, retro LP collection, etc.). Ack. How will we ever overcome the bombardment?

Well, I start with the obvious, which is recognizing the messages never end and are constantly incoming. And, they sometimes are quite sneaky, i.e., "Why, of course, I want to be healthier by doing that new supplement regime touted by Oprah!" (Remember acai?)  

And, I'll read the book. And, I'll reread the book. Maybe, I'll even start to meditate. Would that be reaching for X, too? Depends, I suppose, on what I meditate on. Perhaps, just on my abundant dishes.