Empathy

While I have heard of David Foster Wallace, I have yet to read any of his work – though from what I’ve heard, the man was brilliant (keyword being was, for as some of you may know he committed suicide in September).

In my book Wreck My Life, readers are introduced to the protagonist, Will as he attempts suicide. He rationalizes that his suicide has been preordained; that it’s something he’s always known he’ll do; something he can’t help but do. And while I’ve researched the depressed mind, while I’ve come to empathize with it, it really wasn’t until I read an article in Rolling Stone about the life of David Foster Wallace that I really understood the torture it subjects its victims to.

To say that it is sad that the world lost a voice like his would be a gross understatement. However, the true tragedy is that despite the therapy, despite the awareness, despite the support of family and friends, David Foster Wallace knew his depression would eventually win. That the outcome was inevitable.

Often, those unaffected by depression make light of mental illness and accuse the afflicted of being nothing more than weak-minded individuals looking to blame something other than themselves for their failures.

For some, the cliche of the troubled artist is nothing more than a joke, a stereotype to laugh at, but for too many the reality is far worse. For some, the very depression that slowly erodes their soul is the fuel for their creativity and while some seek treatment, others feel that by killing the depression they’ll also kill their creativity; that depression is a necessary evil – an intermittent black cloud not welcomed, but tolerated.

My friends and family like to kid me about the fact that many of the themes I write about tend to be dark and troubling. I laugh with them and try to justify why I find such topics to be more engaging and interesting: they don’t buy it, we move on and I’m left wondering why it is I really enjoy writing about such morbidly troubled characters. Is it because I’m depressed? Am I really the cliched struggling writer? Or is it simply because the minds of the troubled are a hell of a lot more interesting and dynamic than those of the blissfully happy?

The correct answer is probably all three.

Filed under: Why I Write, david foster wallace, novels, Short Stories/Essays, Writing

New short story: Dinner

Thoughts on my latest experiment with flash fiction?

Dinner

The woman sitting at the table was more interested in tracing circles around the edge of her wine glass than in paying attention to the man sitting across from her. Occasionally she would dip the tip of her long and slender index finger into the wine and then bring it to her lips. He was talking. And because the woman was polite, she would smile and nod.

The date with the man was a favor to a friend.

Formalities comforted the woman and she believed blind dates were beneath her. This nonsense of introductions in restaurant lobbies and forced conversation was unsettling. A woman of her grace and elegance deserved to be pursued with a certain sense of propriety.

“Do you like your wine,” the man asked.

She took a sip and nodded.

“It’s a very expensive bottle,” he replied. “A Pinot Noir.”

“It’s nice,” she said.

The man continued speaking and she heard him say, “softer than a Merlot.” Then she retreated back into her thoughts.

In another time her friend would have at least had the decency to have joined them. They would have enjoyed a double date, the men talking of business and golf and whatever it was that men spoke of, while she and her friend discussed the latest fashion and gossiped. Perhaps, she thought, the men would invite them to discuss politics. The woman smiled as she imagined the four of them laughing as they sipped martinis, thin wisps of blue smoke trailing from the cigarettes held between delicate fingers.

“Then you agree?” Asked the man, confusing her smile for affirmation.

“Absolutely,” she replied, ladylike despite the rude interruption.

The vanity of the man sitting across from her offended her. He was too pretty, she thought. Tall and dapper, slightly effeminate yet still masculine. Handsome. A sophisticant and a bore.

She like using words like that. She felt they possessed a certain dignity and in her mind she pronounced them with the disaffected grace of a 1940’s Hollywood starlet.

The past is but a second old and already we have no future, she thought.

It was always in her mind that she said such things. Never would she utter such melodramatic statements out loud. That would be uncouth. Out loud she was just like everyone else.

A lady doesn’t wear her emotions, she reminded herself.

Out loud she was what everyone expected.

She imagined the man would want her to sleep with him after such an expensive dinner.

“More wine,” he asked as he held the bottle to her half-empty glass.

“Please,” she replied.

Filed under: Short Stories/Essays, short stories, Short Stories/Essays, Writing