Writingbolt's Creation

*****

What’s this all about? Spirit roots? Well, I guess you could say I’ve stumbled upon another source of inspiration, one which tugs at my very soul and makes me wonder if I’m not some famous author’s “next life.” I’ve discovered some surprising similarities. And, in a way, this discovery feels like learning about an ancestor. I’ve found a similar philosopher and may be part of the same creative tree.

[I was set to use the word “spiritual” in the title until I realized people might assume that is a religious term, instead of one regarding each person’s individual personality and instincts.]

So, once more, I am watching a collection of televised Biographies on a Saturday. And, once again, I am almost instantly swept away by thought-provoking tales and images which make me take a swift, serious look at my own life.

This time, the tales are of Flash Gordon, H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. [I’ll save you some reading time by saying I have little to nothing to say about Verne; I was too busy pondering Wells, at the time, to fairly listen to Verne’s full story.]

One might wonder how you lump “sci-fi” hero Flash Gordon in with two famous authors…until you realize they are all associated with science fiction. Yeah. I know, one is a character, and the other two were fairly similar minds with plenty of time to read and write books. And, each has his own philosophy and family history, though the authors do share some events, even though their histories are forty years apart.

**As for the first “chapter” in my televised afternoon lessons, Flash Gordon may be summed up as a regular guy who becomes a hero simply by choosing to stand up and take action for the safety of his friends and loved ones, rising up against tyrants wherever he encounters them, and almost always in the company of the lovely Dale Arden. He’s a fairly two-dimensional model of what all humans should aspire to be, not costumed superheroes with inexplicable powers but real heroes who defend love and personal beliefs. He is the driving inspiration for all characters who don’t wear “spandex” costumes yet kick butt and fight beside their beautiful companions, who in some versions of Flash Gordon, appear as his equal, his proven match with no outdated female restraint.**

What quickly grabbed my attention, in “chapter two,” was the origin story of H. G. Wells, how similar his fate was to my own. Well, my parents didn’t run a china shop into bankruptcy. And, I’m not exactly in a financial position, yet, to support two unemployed/struggling parents. Nor am I an avid reader of books who juggled journalism and teaching in my college years.

But…

**His first job, as a “young man,” not yet an adult, did nothing to make use of his creative talents.**

Ditto. And, actually, so far, none of my paying jobs have really supported my talents. Like Wells, my workplaces frowned upon my habit of using quiet time to dwell upon my talents. Wells liked to doodle!…often! [I had no idea he was not just an author but a comical artist!] And, so do I.

**From an early age, he rejected the norms of society and fought to carve out a path of his own philosophy.**

Well, while I share that same sort of fire, now, I didn’t start out like Wells. I think I was a tad more like the guy in “chapter three,” Verne. I wasn’t exactly a “momma’s boy,” but I had been raised under my mother’s strict thumb from an abnormal birth, putting up with what would gradually be classified as mad tactics by other members of the family.

My mother, in her own self-preserving way, kept exceedingly tight reins on her family, especially her children…especially me. And, it wasn’t until a veritable psychological crisis in my teens that we both hit an impass. In my late teens, I finally found my “voice” and started “fighting back,” not only rejecting the limited outlooks of my parents (and some questionable choices of my siblings and other relatives) but also rejecting what was thrust in my face as “the way things are in this world.”

**At 15, Wells was suicidal. He saw what was laid out for him, his responsibilities, and he feared it would consume him. He saw no positive future for himself.**

Ditto. I was just about to turn 15 when I felt there was nothing good for me in the world. An invasive, wicked fear had taken hold and was sucking me down like a rabid vampire. I wouldn’t be here now to tell this story if I didn’t somehow get over my despair and find the fire to survive. Sadly, that fire has made me a very intolerable person, when I get upset. People start to withdraw when I get mad at the world. Fair enough. No one wants to play nice with the Hulk when he’s raging. But, like the Hulk, there’s a sort of sad music playing when everyone leaves him alone (after they’ve tried to shut him down, clone or destroy him).

Yet, even with all of that going on in my head, I retained a sort of respect for law and order and discipline, none of which most of my fellow high-school graduates had. Those who felt like me were quiet shadows whispering among the rebels who had plenty of ambition to cause trouble and little to any conscience until you broke them down at a senior retreat, a retreat they soon spoiled with their insatiable need to rebel. I might have had some rebellious impulses sparking within me, but I knew…or believed…acting on them would only lead to more trouble than I could handle. I believed true rebellion would only do good if it was carefully planned, not rushed. Sadly, I never found anyone who felt the same way.

**Wells (and Verne) were voracious bookworms who somehow turned that hunger into productive lives filled with writing.**

I’ve said this countless times; I’m not an avid reader. I don’t care much for reading books but have a small “flame” for crafting them. I don’t just write words, I craft pictures and concepts. I seem to have always been an artist and craftsman of concepts, not just someone who duplicates what’s already been done or writes non-fiction. I’m not a great reporter by choice. But, if you need an accurate account of what I’ve witnessed, I manage just fine. I’m detail-oriented but also hate being and hearing too many details. I find bliss in some simplicity yet cannot resist complicating things. It’s both vexing and stimulating.

Like Vernes and Wells, I’ve always been a visionary, foreseeing events that will likely unfold on the world. Wells wrote a book about World War Two which was among the books burned by Hitler as the latter started the actual war! Wells foresaw what came to pass, and it horrified him. This was just one bullet in his coffin, one thing to pass which discouraged him from living a happy life.

**Wells completed an early novel…a NOVEL…with PICTURES…at age ten, something about a “desert daisy.”**

Well, I have yet to complete an actual novel…though I’m good at talking enough in a day to fill one. But, I DID complete MY first books when I was between 7 and 10. My very first book was about “how the world was made” and consisted of about ten examples of different possibilities, each including a very comical and vivid pencil drawing, nothing more than a handful of pages bound by staples, as I had been taught by my mother. There were others about shape-shifting robots and silly ninja who quested to find treasure and had to fight some odd villains and monsters along the way.

One of those went to an aunt who demanded I give it to her and who refuses to now confirm what became of that precious creation. After taking that early work of mine, I quickly became defensive about giving away anything I made and have been that way since that incident. I’m generous from the heart, but my intellectual and self-disciplined side, the side of me that prods restraint and caution, curbs my generosity.

From an early age, I’ve had an equally inspiring and vexing ability to fire off ideas at a rapid pace, once inspired. That sort of energy prompts me to draw and even write what I am writing this moment. I see or hear something, and suddenly I can’t move fast enough to satisfy the urgings surging through me. My hands lock up and stumble, making poor curves and letters few if any can actually read. I cannot be “clear” when the inspiration is flooding my brain. It must pour out any way it can, and it isn’t always understood, rarely if ever in an orderly fashion. I’d be a lousy Play-Doh factory; you could press a lever, hoping to produce a stream of dough in some shape and get a mess coming out of various cracks in the plastic, not what you expected.

As creative and awe-inspiring that energy can be, it also tends to overwhelm my body and cause a “mental crash.” I stop short of completing a goal and start chasing another. Why? Because one isn’t enough. I don’t just see one straight path. I see many branches, like sprouting a plant or tree. An idea forms like a seed and explodes into life in my mind, casting my creative energy in a haphazard array of possibilities, making it difficult for me to clearly depict just about anything to the “average spectator.”

I also get overwhelmed by my own ideas, trying to fully depict them, trying to fully accept what comes with them. Some ideas are so horrible, so discouraging. I could write some of the best horror stories ever read; but the world around me is already such a horror that the thought of crafting more just drains me. I shut down and just want to curl up in a ball on someone’s lap. I cannot fully give birth to many of the ideas I have, which causes me to feel a bit like a woman who fails to birth a child in their womb. Except, I’m having this mishap almost weekly. It’s…well, again, vexing and discouraging. I have a somewhat advanced intellect (according to people who get awed by my words and artwork), a hard drive, in a way, and a poor computer processor which cannot handle the information/data flow.

Going back to what I said about Wells and Verne being voracious readers of books, I suppose that was their form of easy entertainment, what kept them distracted from the gloom of their worlds. They didn’t have radio shows or TV. Imagine that, all you tech-obsessed scrollers in this world.

I, on the other hand, was a child of television. I took to TV like a baby to the bottle. I was on a short leash, thanks to my parents, and the only “friends” in reach came from an old, damaged TV set. I made friends with girls in colorful costumes, a pink butterfly, a Smurf. I fell in love with waitresses, cops, counter-intelligence operatives, maids, teachers, school girls, witches (not the green-faced and warted sort), nurses and cavewomen…the occasional shapeshifter or spy. And, of course, plenty of princesses; there seems to always be a pretty princess, somewhere. [Yet, the finest of princesses are not the ones who always cry out in need of rescue. The ones who perpetually win my heart are the princesses who tear off their formal gowns, gear up for battle and kick butt, women (and girls) who are not content being pampered in their fathers’ castles.] I didn’t take much interest in the male heroes who too often looked a bit strange and seemed to have thick, curly or wavy hair, unlike me.

[Speaking of hair…I noticed how Wells and Verne both had similar hairstyles to my own…at least, when they were children, parted to the same side, with a similar glossy, hope-seeking gleam in their downtrodden eyes. When they became well-known adults, their hair seemed to “evolve” into something wooly and wild (again, unlike me). But, they started out like me. A drawing of childhood Verne looked like a portrait someone might have made of me…if I dressed like a historical cabin boy.]

I chowed down on TV shows which, later, fueled my drawings…not much writing. I did a LITTLE writing as a kid. It was part of the school requirement and inspired by library-related TV shows and movies. [Even at an early age, I had a budding “lust” of some sort for “bookish” girls/women, women with glasses and “prim” or “mod” attire, knee socks, stockings and pleated skirts paired with white blouses and Mary Janes or pumps.] But, I didn’t care much for reading or writing because, as I said about my creative energies, it takes more time and effort to put a feeling into words than it does to draw a picture, no matter how crude the drawing may be. A picture is said to be worth a thousand words; that saves my brain SO much time (versus trying to craft a clear picture in a fountain of words fewer and fewer seem to take the time to read).

Children’s books I could have written as early as I was able to write sentences, maybe even five years old. But, if I had to write a book for kids, it would be a fairytale or limerick, a fable. I’ve often wanted to be a sort of Aesop or one of the Grimms. I’ve also wanted to work with the Disney cartoon-crafting team. Those interests or passions come and go with fluctuations in self-confidence and hasty praise. Eventually, I find myself looking for some other path of my own to carve, a trail to blaze, rather than simply follow in the footsteps of someone already famous. I don’t want to be the next Joe Famous. I want to make my own fame in the history books (and not be one of the bad guys).

In sixth grade, I was given my highest compliment for writing, by a teacher. I had written an impressive story in “second person,” a rather rare perspective in writing, unless all you read are pick-a-path books, a story about fear. I knew fear well, even as a kid. I’ve been a target for bullies most of my life. I’ve seen other kids suffer from fear, even break down and run away from expectations. I accepted the compliment with pride, though I wish I had received the praise for something less…scary. In a strange way, I’m glad the teacher wanted to keep my story; it wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands and spread the fear it contained. My story would not inspire any bully to use that fear against me or anyone else. As an adult, having heard countless stories about people who write disturbing letters and stories before committing horrible crimes…I now wonder if my proud teacher wasn’t just concerned about me being one of those…creeps…who was about to do something horrible. Maybe she wanted my story on file as evidence, something to present should I act out on my fears, cause a scene.

In my second year of high school, I received the worst and most perplexing insult. I don’t recall what earned the insult. I was simply told I have no style and was essentially doomed to fail my sophmore English class. After receiving high praise in my earlier years, I was failing a class for something I failed to understand or see. What is style? Am I dressed inappropriately while writing? Am I not trying hard enough to copy a previously famous author? So, I’m not Shakespeare or Dickens; shut up about those guys, already.

Later, I started to pick up on cues and write to please my teachers; whatever they liked, I wrote to get a good grade. Now, sure, that worked well enough…but it felt wrong. I wasn’t writing what felt right to ME, in MY words, whatever that “no style” output was.

So, I guess it’s no surprise my path shifted away from that of Wells when I reached college age. I certainly did not become a teacher and journalist at the same time I was crafting books. I would explode, trying to juggle that load. Plus…how was a kid with no family income affording any kind of education worth making him fit for teaching any subject?

Sure. These biographies talk about Wells and Verne being avid science students (and math was fairly easy for Verne). But, Wells had unemployed parents he eventually had to support. If my family was set up for such failure, I’d be lucky to get any sort of education, not likely one that would even motivate me to take up teaching…or be accepted as a teacher.

Once in a while, I hear someone tell me I should be a teacher, but it never goes far because I don’t believe I’d do well. It would be a flight of the ego to think I have enough in my head and the means to deliver it in any way that would benefit a classroom of students.

[Heck. At the tender age of six, I thought I could teach an art class. I just wanted to see how well my classmates could draw (apply their imagination, if necessary) and hopefully add a few fellow artist-friends. But, that failed. It wasn’t a complete disappointment; some kids made the effort. I had drawings to review and display in my…well, no, my parents didn’t really let me freely display artwork in my bedroom, either. Others “stuck it to me,” drawing inappropriate things to get a reaction. Honestly, without feeling I had the right and/or ability to teach anything, I sort of knew I was not right in that position. My “knowledge” of art is self-taught, from my own practice and observations. I cannot teach someone to draw a better circle or turn 2-D shapes into people. I find that stuff in books by other “teachers” and struggle to add those lessons/skills to my set; I guess I’m too “stubborn” (blame genetics) to be like the Sinatra family and find my own way. So, naturally, I expected others to find their own way, but not everyone could perform that well (or refused to participate).]

I can hardly talk to five people at a time without my words getting cut off by one thing or another. I can barely complete a thought without interruption. And, while my family is prone to think we know enough of something to press it upon another, that now seems short-sighted thinking.

No. I can hold an occasional conversation and spark awe in a small audience. But, I cannot run a class for any length of time beyond a day. I’d certainly need a few teacher’s aides.

———

Take a breath, dear reader, if you’ve made it this far. I’ve probably already bombarded your brain with more information than you can adequately process in one sitting. Grab some water. Shake out those limbs and get ready for another session, if you so choose to continue.

———-

Let’s get back to the story of H. G. Wells.

**Young crushes. When Wells began to show his hormones, he had a quick crush on a cousin, named Isabelle, which developed into a foolish marriage. Wells was an experimental sort of guy who had unconventional ideas about relationships; he never wanted to limit whatever his feelings demanded of him. Isabelle, though enamored with H. G., was loyal to the “status quo” and could not go along with all of her cousin’s whims. Thus, the marriage became difficult, bitter.**

Thank goodness I never married either of my attractive cousins, then! Actually, by the time I knew both of my attractive blonde cousins, they were already in relationships that surpassed my comprehension. One was engaged to a legal employee of some sort. The other was a hot mess of cigarettes and bad choices…yet every time she’d look at me and speak my name, I couldn’t help swooning as if caught in the spell of a witch. [The latter has been a vital source of inspiration for various female enchantresses, especially those who use smoke like ropes to ensnare prey.]

How does one even marry a cousin? I thought that wasn’t…proper…or allowed. Anyway…

**While taking up teaching and journalism, Wells fell in love with a science student named Amy Catherine, who he somehow began referring to as “Jane.” Amy, unlike Isabelle, was open to everything Wells had to offer. They shared philosophies on so many levels. In some ways, they were the perfect pair. Yet, when it came to sex, unexpected difficulties discouraged Amy’s interest. She wanted to please Wells, living up to his fantasies. But, two painful births stole her passion. H. G. had urges for orgies and experimental sex; Amy could not “keep up” with such notions.

Strangely enough, this prompted her to concede to affairs. Wells was permitted to have sex with whoever he encountered and desired, provided he came back to inform Amy Catherine (no secrets). Even after countless affairs, Amy “Jane” stood by Wells, up until her tragic death. Her death, many years into the oddly open relationship, deeply wounded Wells (which is difficult to believe and fully understand when you think about a man being set free to have sex with anyone he desires, even when he’s pushing seventy). But, what Wells supposedly said helps his pain make sense. Yes; he had many affairs with many attractive younger women. But, few if any could hold a candle, intellectually, to Amy Catherine, who he considered an equal. Referring back to Flash Gordon, Amy Catherine was, indeed, HG’s Dale Arden.**

…I’ve got nothing on this part. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I just haven’t had that sort of freedom or luck with women. ‘Not to mention…this guy is so busy writing and having sex…without any mention of STDs or other complications. ‘No jealous lover retaliations or violence in the streets. ‘No scary stories come of this…habit, as other authors craft. Instead, Wells writes books like “Ann Veronica” and “The Passionate Friends,” which are said to have some very unconventional outlooks and experiences within their covers, events that might drop some jaws.

I can only seem to fantasize about such a life. And, I fantasize plenty (just not as much or as “one-dimension-ally” as so many sitcom writers who all seem to be of the mindset that sex is a game and joke you can play every episode of your life with countless girls/women, without life-impacting consequence). Oh…no doubt…I could write and draw pictures as Wells did. But, most of that lustful creation seems to cause nothing but trouble for me. If family or any girl/woman I’ve liked sees my depictions of half- or fully-naked women in various abnormal sexual situations, they…would like to push a button that fires me out of their universe. Let’s put it like that. My unconventional notions are really good at turning desired beauties into scaredy cats and restraining orders…and family into unwelcome monsters.

Considering how I was raised, it’s amazing I can even fantasize. I try to imagine living out my fantasies, only to have some sort of opposition shut that down. Sometimes it’s my own fears and/or conscience. Sometimes, it takes getting a frightful rejection and warning from someone who sparks my passions to discourage me from ever having another sexual fantasy.

Yet, while I may go on struggling to find the freedoms Wells seemed completely un-opposed to enjoy, I cannot fully stop fantasizing. That’s a painful way to live. I confess. [But, so is throwing myself at every spark of lust with the chance of contracting something that would only make life worse if not slowly kill me.]

Not being an avid reader, I have to wonder…how does Wells depict women in his stories? Is he sensitive to their natures, mannerisms and needs? Or, does he “write like a (lustful) man?” [On that note, I am tempted to try and find copies of “Ann Veronica” and “The Passionate Friends” at the library…and hope I don’t find either as unsettling as a book I once had to read in high school, something about a woman’s “harp,” in which I (at a “respectful Catholic school”) was shocked by the details of a woman…er…playing with herself.]

I know a little about “The Time Machine.” I know there is a love story woven into it, something about losing touch while chasing through time, whenever the protagonist gets discouraged and/or distressed, like the protagonist in that story about the guy who acquires a magic ball of string from a witch of some sort, a ball of string which advances time whenever he pulls on the loose end. He was frustrated with a girl he liked, wanting her to be with him, not taken away by the demands of others, the demands of their timely adulthood. Eventually, that man regrets losing all of that time he wasted/cheated and prays for redemption. Could the love interest in “The Time Machine” be Amy Catherine? Could Wells have been concerned about losing touch with her?…and, in his own astounding prophetic way, foreseen the truth about her inevitable demise?

Two of the three Biographies I watched made me feel somewhat discouraged and guilty for not being more productive and “public” with my talents. I cannot compete with a Grisham or Patterson, who might be compared to Wells and Verne with their volume of creative work. I cannot even complete one novel to satisfy my interests. I desperately seek an assistant, my own Amy Catherine, to review my efforts and work with me on completing so many projects. I weep at the thought of never having someone like her in my life.

To think…H. G. Wells was such a lucky and brilliant guy to have so much output survive, make him famous/wealthy and fill his life with liberating passion. He had an amazing woman by his side and the liberty to do things I dare not try, probably. Sure, I might like a harem of my own. But, I cannot be so casual with sex as he seemed to be. Nor can I imagine pairing up with countless “girls,” people more than half my age, without feeling just a little…strange, like the sort of creep people write about who might as well be deemed a “predator.” I guess, in a way, all of the “material” others have crafted to be absorbed by an audience, including myself, has curbed any wild passionate side I might have. [And, negative results from the limited efforts I’ve dared to make haven’t exactly boosted my confidence to try again, either.]

Sigh.

As for Jules Verne, I gathered this much…

**He was born into wealth; his father was a wealthy lawyer. [Just to be clear to anyone who is already picturing a guy in a gray or navy-blue suit jacket and tie, with slicked back hair and plenty of attitude in a court room…not that kind of lawyer. I’m presuming a bit Verne senior was more of the dusty wig, British government sort. And that, somehow, prompted wealth “back in the day.”] Though he rejected the path set for him by his father and favored the sea-faring path of his brother, Paul, Jules was a bit of a momma’s boy, who, at some point, told his mother to pair him up with a young woman who was very pretty and rich.**

If I ever did such a thing with my mother, I should be shot. I cringe at the thought. Sure, who wouldn’t like to fall into love with someone not only attractive but with the means to live just about any life you could want? Yet, that seems like a very…er, fantasy-oriented aim, with little chance of happening…or some chance with unexpected consequences you won’t ultimately like.

I’d never ask my mother for help with finding my soul mate. Yet, coincidentally, my mother DID play a part in finding…well, one definite soul mate…who, sadly, eventually, distanced herself and lost touch with me. I still cry over that loss. We were “introduced” at a summer activity group of a sort, a means for parents to fill summer vacations with something pleasing for their children. I simply accepted this taller, brown-haired, rough-around-the-edges Princess-Fiona into my “circle” and quickly became valued friends with her. Thirty-plus years have gone by, and I still regret how that friendship ended. She was the best of friends. I probably would have married her, given the chance. But, that didn’t happen…for me, anyway. I recently learned she was married…and with a child. So, that’s that.

**Verne had an interest in science/technology and the sea. And, he excelled at math.**

Well, golly gee, so did I…until I just no longer cared much for math. I mean, sure I can drill formulas into my soft, fragile yet enduring egg of a head. But, I’m not doing anything favorable with them, except maybe a bit of geometry, considering it’s handy in crafting/art, especially when you’re a perfectionist who can’t settle for “eyeballing” every detail.

Verne wrote many, many stories about “islands,” about places adrift at sea, away from the “real world.” One contributor to the Biography even went so far as to say the submarine in “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” was a floating world, in a way. All of those stories, those notions, stemmed from Verne longing to get away from what was forced upon him and live more freely close to mysterious bodies of water. I guess, in a way, Verne wrote what he knew, as some tell others and themselves to do. He lived close to harbors and craved sea travel/escape.

That’s about all I gathered from Verne. And, while he was regarded as the founder of science fiction, having been born forty years before H. G. Wells, who went on to craft a variety of futuristic and, often, gloomy stories about humankind misusing technology and obsessively going to war over foolish, outdated philosophies, H. G. Wells seems to have had better luck at thinking outside the box and diversifying his interests, like me.

If I wrote so much about sea travel and looked back on my work to see only that, I think I’d be a little disappointed with myself. Just as…if all I could write about were sexual fantasies which amounted to nothing in reality…I’d feel quite empty and foolish. Thus, I am far more cautious and slow to produce anything I feel even worth sharing with the world. I take time to craft and don’t seem to craft enough to really polish my skills to a level that satisfies myself.

Occasionally, I dive into something that amuses or interests me. But, so far, that hasn’t achieved much beyond that momentary amusement. So, I’m not sure what else to say…about anything.

And, on that note, I bid you adieu. Take from all of this what you will. If you read every word, thank you for sitting with me and taking the time to process my thoughts and observations.