Just World

From the time we’re born, we love hearing stories. In the world of fiction, authors have the ability to arrange events and character arcs so that everything generally works together thematically and makes sense in terms of some greater meaning. Things have reason for happening, and usually things will end up in a way that seems satisfying, even if there is some tragedy.

We start with fairytales, which are so blatant about this type of world building that they usually not only have events and characters that are molded by themes, but also by morals. There are lessons that emerge, and a sense of justice applied to all events.

A good example of this is the story of the little red hen. The hen plants seeds, takes care of them, cuts the wheat when it grows, takes it to the mill, brings back flour, makes the dough, and bakes the bread. Through every step, she asks all her friends for help, but the dog, cat, and duck (described with clear negative adjectives like lazy, sleepy, and noisy) refuse to help, letting her do the work all herself. At the end, when there is delicious, warm bread, everyone asks to ‘help’ eat some, and the chicken replies that she’ll eat it all by herself.

In this story, it’s satisfying, because we know that the chicken deserves to eat all the bread. This is considered fair. It would not be the same story if all the animals helped during every step and the chicken still ate all the bread herself. It also would be very different if the dog went through all the work of making it and the chicken decided to take it for herself. These stories wouldn’t be considered fair, and would likely leave us feeling uncomfortable, or even angry.

Not every story is as clear cut as “The Little Red Hen.” A similar story, “The Ant and the Grasshopper” repeats the situation where one character gathers food and another character does not, leaving the unhelpful character hungry in the end. However, in this story there are a few essential differences.

First, the grasshopper wasn’t gathering food because (depending on the version) he was singing, dancing, or playing the fiddle. This immediately casts undertones that feel uncomfortable to any artist, implying that creation of art isn’t actually contributing to the world, and it was foolish and morally wrong to create it when you should be doing real work.

Second, the story implies that the grasshopper and ant act differently because it is their nature to act differently, which brings in a whole element of determinism and might make readers feel unsettled depending on whether or not they feel people should be helped or punished for differences that cause some degree of societal harm. In the story, if the grasshopper truly didn’t know any better, or didn’t know how to store food for the winter, is it entirely his fault for not helping gather food? Should he have been punished, or taught how for the following year?

Third, the consequence for playing music all summer in the warm weather was being locked out in the cold and starving to death. This is a much more extreme punishment than the animals in the little red hen story faced. While it generally feels satisfying to think of unhelpful people not getting to enjoy fresh bread, and the person who worked hard on it getting rewarded— it feels pretty unsettling to think of a fiddle player starving to death in the winter.

Why does it make us so uncomfortable when stories don’t adhere to the kind of justice that we expect? When a fictional character dies in a grand sacrifice, letting their name go down in history, and changing the world for the better, we’re sad, but it feels satisfying and right, somehow. But when a beloved character dies due to a wrongful execution, or an infection that’s never treated, or a stray bullet fired by a soldier who never knew them, we are outraged.

We react very strongly to our idea of a just world being stripped from us. Even those of us who do like our stories to be a little unjust, using descriptors like “dark” or “gritty,” will be horrified or angry every time a terrible immoral character is praised and rewarded and our beloved protagonists are insulted, stripped, tortured, killed, and forgotten.

We don’t like thinking of the world as unjust, and even when it has no real-world consequences, like in a fictional narrative, we almost always prefer the lie.

Buffy: Does it ever get easy?
Giles: You mean life?
Buffy: Yeah, does it get easy?
Giles: What do you want me to say?
Buffy: Lie to me.
Giles: Yes. It’s terribly simple. The good guys are always stalwart and true. The bad guys are easily distinguished by their pointy horns or black hats, and, uh, we always defeat them and save the day. No one ever dies and… everyone lives happily ever after.
Buffy: Liar.

-Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lie to Me

The problem is, we also prefer the lie in real life.

We prefer to think that there is some sort of moral balancing act in the universe. We tell ourselves things like “If you just work hard and are a good person, good things will come your way.”  “You’ve got good karma.” “What goes around comes around.” “He’ll get his.” “Everything will be okay in the end, if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

We love thinking this way, for obvious reasons. It’s reassuring, and gives us motivation and hope that we need to accomplish anything, and to be good people. How cold-hearted it would be if a friend came to us, upset and lonely, and we said, “There’s no actual guarantee anything will get better.” It’s cruel to say, and hard to believe, so instead we tell them, “Things will get better soon. No one deserves it more than you.”

At first, clinging to the idea of a ‘just world’ seems beneficial. It’s a motivational tool, it gives us meaning, and it helps us comfort each other.

Only, it doesn’t. It also turns into a terrible force against empathy whenever real tragedy meets anyone. Believing that the world is just is irreconcilable with the belief that morally good, kindhearted people can suffer horribly or die lonely. But they do. And we prefer the lie of the just world so much, that sometimes instead of letting go of that comforting idea, we try to find some way that the people who suffered were wrong.

If it’s a just world, only bad people suffer. So if that person is homeless and hungry, maybe it was his own fault for not saving his money, like that grasshopper in the story. If someone was killed, maybe it was because they were acting threatening. If someone was raped, maybe they dressed wrong, or drank too much, or went a place they shouldn’t have. If someone dies of a heart attack, we’ll talk about how they should have eaten better or taken better care of themselves. We’ll look through a victim’s history, picking their life apart for irrelevant details— they stole something once, they had lots of partners, they did drugs, they ate unhealthily and didn’t exercise, they made stupid choices. Anything we can find that we can define as ‘immoral’ we bring up so that it makes more sense why something bad happened.

This is called ‘victim blaming’ and is incredibly harmful. It strips empathy from us. Normally caring people, who would never picture themselves hurting someone when they’re down, do just that. Instead of saying, “I’m so sorry, how can I help?” they say, “You deserved it. That would never happen to me.

This is terrible. It’s wrong, and it’s never, ever okay. In a just world, victim blaming would never happen. But this isn’t a just world, and it happens all the time.

Even those of us who know and acknowledge that the world isn’t fair still sometimes fall into this harmful fallacy. Embracing that the universe does not reward ‘goodness’ or punish ‘evil’ is scary. It is terrifying to believe that bad things could happen to you for no reason. You could get sick and never get better, someone you love might never love you back, your house could burn down, some kids could steal your cat and torture it for fun, and you could die in a car crash tomorrow on your way to work.

Who wants to acknowledge those possibilities? How could you ever sleep at night? It’s really scary, and I don’t blame anyone for using the just world fallacy to get through their day to day life. Sometimes it is kind to believe in. Sometimes it really is helpful to lie to ourselves.

But when bad things happen, we can’t start assigning blame. We must break down the fallacy, let our guard down, and embrace that reality that terrible things can happen to anyone for no reason. Tragedy isn’t contagious and we’re not helping ourselves by shutting the world’s hurt away in quarantine.

So when you hear of something terrible happening to someone, please let yourself be scared. Let yourself feel what means that something bad could happen to you, not because you deserve it, but because “deserving it” has no meaning to the universe. Then, try to stop thinking about that fear in terms of yourself, and just think about who has actually suffered. Try to help them, or those who love them. Try to help our culture rid itself of the “just world” shield when it needs to so that we can collectively experience empathy and show compassion.

This world is not just, but we can be.

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Desire Path: A Symbol

A good friend of mine visited yesterday and mentioned a noun I hadn’t heard used before, though it was an idea with which I was quite familiar. A desire path exists when enough people take a shortcut that their continued footsteps pack down the ground and create a new path over time. It is a path of use rather than of planning.

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I’ve seen many of these in public spaces where sidewalks are poorly placed for efficiency, leading people to cut across the grass. Many trails fit into the idea behind a desire path as well, because enough people followed the same way through the trees and stones that it’s obvious where others have walked before. Even in those trails, though, there are often smaller desire paths that veer the other way around trees, or jut off towards common lookouts and views. 

The concept of a desire path feels symbolic to me. Unlike Robert Frost, I’m not interested in the path less travelled, but the path more travelled. I find it most important where we walk despite the actual trail going in another direction.

We try to create a standard form of a language by establishing “correct” rules, grammar, and definitions, but ultimately the natural flow of common use shapes the path by which our language evolves. The standard language is a sidewalk, and the way we actually use the language is the desire path.

Writers outline and decide what we want our stories to be, but then our characters don’t behave and our thoughts venture in new directions. Themes we didn’t realize needed to be told suddenly show themselves through the new path that arises. I have often ended up with an entirely different story or poem than the one I first set out to tell. 

We carefully lay out plans all the time, but before long we find ourselves straying. Ask a teenager what they want to be when they grow up and then revisit them in five years and ask again. Even the optimist will probably have reshaped their direction in a way that faces less resistance and is more possible to achieve.

Desire paths are not always negative things, in the literal or symbolic sense. They can save us time or lead us to places we might have never seen had we stayed on the trail. They can reassure us that somewhere is safe to walk. We can follow the desire paths of our role models and those who came before us. We can know that although a path we want to take is not the normal, planned, expected trail, it has been travelled before. We can find community in past footsteps. 

 Maybe we do not follow the exact plans of our younger selves, but we are closer to them than if we’d abandoned them entirely. Sometimes leaving the planned path can help us to achieve good when we can’t achieve greatness. We can find new ways to get to the same place. 

As humans, no matter what the initial plans were to guide us, we will go our own direction. We make rules, and we break them. We create governments, and we rebel. We create strict philosophies and moral principles, then bend them when real life proves to be more complicated.

We are like water, flowing wherever gravity takes us, working our way between the stones in the easiest direction. But we can carve great valleys that way.

Desire paths are, in some ways, humanity realizing that it is not always who it thought it was. We tell ourselves that we are virtuous, brave, and pure of heart, with eternal, selfless love to offer. We tell our children to always be thoughtful and kind. We tell stories of wise leaders, strong nurturers, and witty antiheroes. We are endlessly hopeful about who we are and who we can be. We write to give ourselves paths to follow, but we don’t always take those paths when others are more convenient, or safer, or help us in small ways. 

We are imperfect. We have desires. We trample grass. 

Five Tips on Writing Titles for Those Hopelessly Bad at Writing Titles

This post isn’t about the word “title” necessarily. It’s a fairly neutral word unless you’re the one responsible for creating them. The word “title” is only ever terrifying for writers.

The saying that you can’t judge a book by its cover doesn’t apply to titles, presumably because traditionally published writers don’t necessarily have any control over their cover art, but they’re entirely responsible for the title of their piece. Titles are also an essential and integrated part of the story, essay, or poem in a way that cover artwork isn’t (unless we’re discussing picture books, comics, graphic novels, or graphic memoirs, of course.).

We know that they’re important and that we will be judged by them before anyone ever reads our work. Because of this, it pains me to say that I’m still unable to create consistently good titles. For me, they require a great deal more mental energy than any other part of my work, including opening and ending sentences.

I’ve tried to put a lot of thought into what makes a title successful and what makes it fail. Even if mine aren’t always strong, I can usually pick out the excellent from the mediocre in others’ pieces, and I can appreciate the different levels on which they succeed as a part of the work.

So, in an exercise of the blind leading the blind, I’m going to try to give advice to other writers reading this who struggle with titles.

Here are five strategies for writing titles when you feel hopeless and have no ideas.

  1. Look for Title Conventions in your Genre
    If you’re writing genre fiction, odds are there are some titles that will instinctively sound like they belong in your genre and titles that sound distinctly outside it. That’s because over time, enough books fell into those same naming conventions that they grew connotations that associate them with the genre. Some examples I’ve noticed include:
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    Fantasy- Blank of Blank
    (e.g. Goblet of Fire, Game of Thrones, Wizard of Earthsea, Lord of the Rings)
    Alternative Fantasy- Adjective Noun
    (e.g. The Golden Compass, American Gods)
    Mystery- Book Titles that Sound like Titles of Other Things
    (e.g. The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde)
    Paranormal Romance- Puns, Alliteration, Some Level of Humor
    (e.g. You Slay Me, Dead Witch Walking, Dead Until Dark)
    Horror: Name
    (e.g. Carrie, Dracula, Frankenstein )
    .
    Granted, there are many books in each genre that don’t follow those conventions at all and there are many books in each genre that follow the conventions I’ve listed for the other genres. But, if you’re incredibly stuck in trying to think of a title, it might help to look through what’s common in your genre and use that as a template.
    .
  2. Long, Confident Titles
    These titles might be my favorite. They catch the eye right away because they’re longer than what we expect, and because of this they have an essence of confidence that can help convey a more modern or humorous tone.
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    One of my friends, K. M. Aleena, has several great titles that use this method.“I Bet it’s Snowing in Houston”
    “Well, You Asked Me to Read Your Future” 
    “Things I’ve Broken While Drunk” 

    In fact, of three titles I’ve ever been specifically complimented on, two of them were of the longer variety (“Let me describe the many reasons why you have no chance with this woman” and “Things Straight Girls Probably Don’t Do”).

    My only caution is that these titles generally need to be earned. They should have something to do with the subject matter, theme, tone, or some combination of those three. There needs to be a reason.

    For example, the poem by Billy Collins: “Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles” 

    Also consider using the very end of an enormously long sentence or idea. You get the fun of the ridiculously lengthy title while still having the actual title remain manageable to write down on a notecard when recommending it.4f4cf0f9e7a0b5f685768110.L

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  3. One Word Titles
    If you’re not having much luck at this point, why not try a less risky title. The one word title releases you from a lot of pressure, because it’s simple and can relate to the subject matter or theme without becoming too much of the poem itself.
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    As a word of caution, these titles will probably not draw much attention to your work. If your book is in a stack of books or your poem is in a long anthology, it might not be the one to which someone first flips.

    However, if you know you’re bad with titles, these can minimize how much attention they pay to the title and let the rest of the poem speak for itself. It also sounds a bit more important and serious than the long, humorous titles.

    The difficult part here is that you need to choose the right word, because a lot of emphasis will be placed on it. Try to avoid simply using a word that describes the subject matter. Sink more into the theme of the piece.

    Nikki Giovanni has some good examples of the One-Word-Title such as “Legacies” and “Resignation.”

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  4. Using Your First Line as a Title
    If you’re still stuck, look over the material that is already in your piece of writing. This works best for poetry or very short flash fiction, though if you’re writing something longer, if there’s a sentence anywhere in your work that might do better as a title, try it out.
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    Sometimes what stops us from being able to think of a title is simply that our piece is already finished. There is no work left for the title to do, so every title seems to just be excessive or take away from the piece. In these instances, it might be helpful to consider taking a piece of the work and using that as your title instead.

    As an example, many of E. E. Cummings poems are titled this way, (how else could “l(a” ever be titled?) and I’ve found it to be a useful strategy myself at times.
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  5. Ask a Friend
    An excellent poet, who I may have mentioned in this blog before, Philip Pardi visited SUNY Oswego’s Living Writers Series. He has a book called Meditations on Rising and Falling which is an excellent title, and many of his poems within the book have great titles as well.
    .
    I listened to him talk and answer questions and then we went out to eat with some other young writers. At some point, I (or someone else) asked if he could give some advice on how to write titles. He admitted that one of his friends had helped with the titling of his book, and that he was grateful because it pulled his work together in a way that made it much stronger.

    So even excellent writers who sometimes create excellent titles have difficulty with it. There’s absolutely nothing wrong in running some ideas by other people and asking for help in creating a title for your work. Sometimes when we’re truly stuck, we just need a new pair of eyes.

As a last piece of advice: Titles are hard to make, but when you do it right, they’re strong. They carry a lot of weight and do a lot of work.  A good title does not label a piece of writing. A good title builds on a piece of writing. 

My Muse is an Abstract Concept Who Likes Naps and Pancakes.

If you hang out in writer-circles for long enough, you’ll inevitably hear about muses at some point. Individual artists have different ideas about what muses can do and what form they take. We discuss if they exist and what that existence or lack thereof might mean for an artist. Some people— the atheists of the writing world— find belief in muses silly, and others find it comforting.

The original muses were goddesses. There were nine of them: Calliope, Clio, Euterpe, Erato, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania. These goddesses were all sisters, and the daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus. Together they personified knowledge and the arts and provided inspiration.

Now, more often it’s not a religious concept but a fantastic one. The muses at some point transformed from goddesses to beings which have more in common with imaginary friends. There is still a bit of magic involved, but the relationship is not standardized between artist and muse at all.

In a TedTalk, Elizabeth Gilbert suggests that the reason muses (by any name, she refers to them as ‘geniuses’) are so attractive is because they allow us to redirect pressure away from the artist onto an external force. She describes it as “a psychological construct to protect you from the results of your work.”

This might seem odd at first. What is wrong with writers that we don’t want blame placed on us for the things we are writing? It makes a bit of sense once you consider how our culture views art. An unsuccessful piece of writing earns a large pile of rejections and lots of thoughtful criticism from family members, friends, and random people on the internet telling the writers that maybe they ought to do something more productive with their lives. A successful piece of writing earns all of that, plus publication and an expectation that the writer now has the ability to access something secretive and creative that no one else can. The family members, friends, and random people on the internet ask where the ideas come from and maybe even say they wanted to be a writer. Famous writers are praised and elevated and their egos inflate like red balloons… until they are criticized again or sit down to write something else, at which point those same red balloons deflate while flying around the room making unpleasant noises.

Gilbert seems to use her muse like a scapegoat for dealing with all of this. She says, 

“And everyone knew that this is how it functioned, right? So this was how the ancient artist was protected from, for example, certain things like too much narcissism, right? If your work was brilliant, you couldn’t take all the credit for it. Everybody knew you had this disembodied genius who had helped you. If your work bombed, not entirely your fault, you know? Everyone knew your genius was kind of lame.”

 

However, the blame-soaking muse is only one of many. Stephen King describes his muse more like a drug dealer. 

 

“There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering down into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station. He lives in the ground. He’s a basement guy. You have to descend to his level, and once you get down there you have to furnish an apartment for him to live in. You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling tropes and pretends to ignore you. Do you think this is fair? I think it’s fair. He may not be much to look at, that muse-guy, and he may not be much of a conversationalist (what I get out of mine is mostly surly grunts, unless he’s on duty), but he’s got the inspiration. It’s right that you should do all the work and burn all the midnight oil, because that guy with the cigar and the little wings has got a bag of magic. There’s stuff in there that can change your life. Believe me, I know.” 

(Stephen King, On Writing, page 144). 

 

Unlike Gilbert, King feels constantly indebted, rather than released from pressure. He works to serve the muse, not the other way around. King’s muse is also much less romanticized, and reading through the description, one might begin to notice what might be an unhealthy dependency on the guy. I think many writers can relate to the feeling of giving hours and hours of work to a piece of writing, then feeling completely justified when they get a taste of the inspiration. All the Writer’s Crippling Self Doubt, frustration, and effort is worth it when the ideas and words start to flow.

A band called Whitebrow has a song about the songwriter’s muse where he describes her more like an on-again-off-again lover who he desperately hopes will come back every single time she leaves him. 

 

“My Muse has left for the hills 
and she’s taken my inspiration.


One day she’ll come back to me. 
One day she’ll come back right here.
One day she’ll come back to me
and make all the muddy waters clear.”

 

Here too, the muse is personified as the one who has the inspiration. The writer must earn the company of the muse in order to get the inspiration, somehow, but this always feels like a fair deal. You can’t stay mad at a muse long.

Not everyone is dependent on a personification to help them write, though. I’m certain there are many authors who believe that real writers just get to work like everyone else and refine their craft.

A fantastic poet named Philip Pardi said once that sometimes he believes in the muse and sometimes he doesn’t. The day I met him at the Living Writers Series at SUNY Oswego, he believed, but perhaps in the days before or after he did not. He’s a muse agnostic.

I suppose I am too. I’m a big believer in awful, forced first drafts that become good writing through revision. I believe that poetry is not necessarily magical or spiritual and that believing so is often a part of why many people are intimidated to write and read it. When we take away the mysticism, what is left is a skill to learn like cooking, building, and mathematics. It gets people away from the doubt about whether they’re real writers if they don’t sense some voice telling them the words to put on the page. I also think that getting away from the idea of divine insight makes revision more fun. If your first draft came from the muse, how could your revision possibly improve on pure, magical inspiration? Deciding that your first drafts are just whatever you jotted down makes it a lot easier to admit the piece needs work.

But then again, sometimes the words flow so easily, it’s almost a spiritual experience. Every once in a while the ideas, memories, music, and lines all weave together as if outside my influence. Sometimes characters decide their choices for themselves. Sometimes poems grow in my brain when I’m actively trying to do other things. 

When this happens, it’s easy to call that sensation “inspiration given from a muse.” The secret is that muses are not exclusive to artists at all. Muses, if we decide they exist, are in great abundance. Everyone has moments when everything just seems to come together. You can see this for yourself when a boy completes a puzzle, a woman realizes she’s in love, or a student says “Oh, I get it!”  

Neil Gaiman explained this concept well in response to the common question “Where do you get your ideas?” 

 

“You get ideas from daydreaming. You get ideas from being bored. You get ideas all the time. The only difference between writers and other people is we notice when we’re doing it.” 

 

I believe that is the truth. Everyone feels motivated and compelled to explore ideas occasionally. The hard parts are doing something about it when it happens and getting it to happen with some regularity.

The first time I took the word “muse” seriously at all, it was in my ‘Introduction to Poetry’ course in college. My professor called free-writing “muse writing” and it stuck for me. Muse writing consisted entirely of writing without stop until the words started becoming interesting, and using that as raw material later to shape written work. It was never stressed that we needed to believe that someone was giving us the words to write down, but somewhere in the phrase implied that by doing this we were tapping into words we might not have written otherwise.

When you have a muse, he isn’t going to chat all the time. He’s usually the kind of person to show up late or cancel plans last second. So you really need to get a schedule established if you want him to have a sliver of a chance remembering when you want him there. Invite him every morning at 8:00 a.m. or every evening at midnight, and he’ll start showing up. Of course, he’ll still probably miss some days or weeks and show up when you don’t want him around too, but it’s good enough. Muse writing is a way of giving him a call and inviting him over.

Or, in non-magical terms: If you start writing every day, you’ll eventually have some great ideas. More than that, you’ll be ready for those ideas, notice them, and know how they might benefit your writing.

Why do writers so often talk about it in the way that sounds more like a fairytale? Why have specific genders, personalities, and relationships associated with feeling motivated and having ideas?

Well, honestly, it’s fun. It’s comforting to personify ideas, and I think a lot of writers can’t help but think of the world in that way. We build our lives around stories and made up people in our heads, so it’s pretty obvious why some of us like assigning character traits to the abstract concept of what gives us inspiration. It also gives writers a narrative to fall back on (the muse never stopped by) during periods of Writer’s Crippling Self Doubt. Maybe it’s also a bit of an inside joke to talk about our muses in the same way we talk about “killing our darlings” when we need to delete sections of books we’ve spent months on or erase characters we love for the good of the writing. It’s not quite the truth that we’re hearing voices and killing our loved ones all the time, but on an emotional level it sometimes feels that way.  

My own muse is not a goddess, a blame-taking fairy, a sketchy guy in the basement, or a fickle lover. She’s a roommate who loves naps more than anything else in the world. She spends the majority of her time sleeping, often in my bed, until her hair gets tangled and she drools on the pillow.

When I need to talk to her, I try to shake her awake. She’s a heavy sleeper, (and can sleep for months at a time like a bear) but sometimes she mumbles for a while about what she’s dreaming. Most of the time it doesn’t make much sense, but it gives me something to write about.

Some of her ideas are bad or completely incoherent, but on good days she’ll wake up and give me all sorts of brilliant advice while I make her pancakes. She’s encouraging and pleasant when she’s awake, and always reminding me that my stories are important. More often than the pancake mornings, though, are the nights where she wakes up on her own and shakes me awake because she needs to talk. Sometimes I decide to sleep and ignore her, but when I listen to what she has to say, I never regret it. 

 

“Whale in the Cabinet”

(metaphor)

 

There is something really unique in the relationship between a novel and a writer. There are a lot of metaphors about a novel being a lover, a child, or some other person that the writer is supposed to care about, but if those metaphors were accurate, novelists would be the most negligent caregivers in the world. Even really dedicated writers give maybe four or five hours of their time to the story a day, and many more just leave the thing sitting there for months at a time while they research what to do with it or get distracted with other projects.

I just don’t think the parent-child relationship is quite right. I think parts of the metaphor are accurate. Writers have responsibility for their novels. They need to support their health and development, and they need to give all their effort. But as loving as it is, the relationship is often enormously awkward and guilt-inducing. So, allow me to introduce a new metaphor.

Novels are essentially whales in the cabinet. This occurred to me sometime in the fall of 2013 while talking to a friend and I’ve felt especially bad about my own whales since then.

What’s it like to have a whale in the cabinet? Well, every night you open the door and attempt to lift this enormous creature. It’s absolutely huge— you can’t see the whole thing, even. A good portion of this sea-beast might be in cabinet-Narnia.

You might struggle to heave a fin onto your shoulder and pull it a little. Some nights you even feel like maybe you made some progress. It seems like it might be sticking a little further out after your efforts. But then other nights, you just see it there, so far from the ocean, so helpless. You realize with horror just how weak you are and how ridiculously big it is, and how horribly far away the ocean is. And then you cry.

“How do I save you, whale?”

There’s no way you can move this whole whale. You’re just one little writer. No one’s even heard of you, really. No one is going to help you. You are the only person in the world who can get this whale to the water, the only one who cares about it. And if you don’t exhaust yourself every night just to move it maybe a few centimeters, or to just throw some water on it, the whale will die and it will be all your fault. Who entrusted you with a whale, anyway?

You go through school or work, you cook meals, you socialize, but all the while you know that the whale is still there. Sad. In the dark. You are growing to know the whale, and sometimes you even love it, and then guilt begins to eat you up from your belly. You bring it up to a few friends.

 

“I have a whale in my cabinet.”

 

“Really? I love whales. That’s so cool. What’s he like?”

“Don’t you think you could be spending your time better? Keeping whales in your cabinet isn’t a very reliable career option. It’s pretty irresponsible.”

“Huh. So how long has it been there?”

 

As time goes on you learn what gets the whale to move a little more. Maybe you’ve never done this before and maybe you have, but this whale is different from anything you’ve ever dealt with before. In your writing classes, you’ve carried fish from your cabinet to the ocean. They stay all wet and smell of fresh tides the whole time. Some of them have healthy, deep colors, their scales reflective and sparkling. Their mouths gasp and they panic a little on the walk there, but most shoot off into the water in good health and leave you feeling satisfied with a job well done.

But this is not a fish. It’s not even a porpoise. This is clearly the largest thing you’ve ever seen.

You imagine how much this whale could change the world. It has at least one giant brown eye (hopefully two, but it’s really squished) and when you watch it, you want to scream to the world how completely beautiful this whale is. You want to lead someone into your bedroom, throw open the cabinet door, and say “Look! This is my whale. It’s gorgeous and noble and mine.”

But you don’t, because then you see how sickly it is. It’s so far away from the ocean, and its skin is drying out no matter how much you pour on it. It’s crumpled, too, and the way it’s all shoved in your cabinet convinces you that it’s not only horrifically bruised but is probably developing scoliosis.

Before you know it, conversations about your whale become stressful.

 

“Didn’t you have a whale at some point? What happened with that?”

“Yeah… uh… it’s, um.”

 

“When are you planning on getting it back in the water?”

“Not for a while, I think. I’m just not sure how yet. I’ve been reading a lot about it, and I’ve practiced carrying fish a lot. It’s just… it’s so huge.”

 

“Can I see it?”

“NO! Not now. Not yet. It… it really looks awful. Oh, God, I’ll take care of it soon, I swear, and then you can see it.”

 

Inch by inch you move the whale. Maybe you find some friends who also have whales and you agree to help them move theirs if they help you move yours. With some assistance, it becomes easier, but it’s still your responsibility.

You grow familiar with your whale, and your loved ones do too as it moves gradually down the stairs and through the living room.

I like to imagine that eventually all whales make it to the ocean, and if they’re healthy enough, they find nice homes there and lots of people can enjoy watching and getting to know the whales.

Maybe your friends and family come to the shore to watch it and they compliment you saying,

 

“I really like that whale. I think you did a really good job getting it to the water.”

“It swims at a really nice pace.”

“This whale reminds me so much of a really healthy whale I saw once.”

 

Sure, there might be some other comments. Comments about how it swims crooked because of its twisted spine and the missing chunk of flesh from its tail, or how it appears a bit sickly at times— but gosh darn it, it’s your whale, and you did your best.

 

But, I wouldn’t know any of that, because I have two whales shoved in my cabinets right now, and I think they might be dying.

I’m sorry whales! I’ll start moving you again after I graduate, I promise.

 

(Also, if anyone is curious, poems are lobsters. Make of that what you will.)