The Little Fascist

my desk

This weekend was glorious in both weather and activity. The temperature shot up literally FIFTY degrees, and it felt like, well, SPRINGTIME. I sat in Bryant Park and wrote in my journal, while big men smoked fat cigars and women in purple coats walked by. Then Graham and I went and saw a fantastic, but scary as hell movie, that was so surprisingly satisfying I STILL can't stop thinking about it. Yesterday I went for a sunny walk in the village with my friend Nate, and we drank delicious coffee, and sat on the curb of a playground and had one of those conversations where you talk about the meaning of art and leading a creative life, with the sun on our faces.

Good days. Except for one pesky part of each day: the part of the day where I write. I feel like lately I have a little fascist that sits at my desk. I call him Doktar Perfektion. He sits there and says very calmly, "Vhat is dees? Vhat do you think you are doink? Where is dees goink?" Then when he blows out the match he just lit his cigarette with he says, "I am not amused."

Of course, the little fascist is me. Does it make it any easier? HELL NO. At the end of my 1000 words, I feel beat up and tired.

On Saturday a small miracle occured. I was getting ready to write, to grit my teeth and CREATE, when Graham said from the bedroom, "Are you listening to the radio? I think you might want to hear this." I came in, and it was a piece on the soon to be published journals of the writer Tennessee Williams. Nearly every section that they read seemed to begin with something akin to "The jig is up, it's OVER. Finally the world will know that I am a fraud." At TWENTY-FIVE he thought it was over. He also thought it was over at 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, etc. etc. This is a man who wrote over 60 plays, 8 collections of short stories, and three novels. Some of his plays will be performed for centuries to come--they changed the landscape of both theater and American literature. Yet, the man still sat at a table and wrote pages of pages of why he was TOTALLY SCREWED.

I don't know why I believe the voices of failure, doom, disaster, and doubt swirling my head are the only UNIQUE thing about me. No matter how many examples I have (Tennessee Williams is one of SO MANY) of artists who had moments of real doubt, I think I am the only person who it's true about--it really IS over for me. I don't know why such amnesia is so ENTICING and EASY, but it is.

When I sat down to write, I opened up a book I had with Williams' picture in it, and propped it on my desk. I wrote with a picture of his smiling face, dipping to smell a rose. If only for a day, I'll take a rose smelling playwright over a smoking fascist any day. Let me tell you, it helped.