Writingbolt's Creation

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Yesterday was Mother’s Day. But, I wasn’t feeling very…festive; which is normal for me, lately, considering how “low” I’ve becomes in holiday spirit from a growing disgust with merchandising and demand to cultivate an economy for the benefit of people who are not me. That about sums up the feeling in so few words.

So, I’m totally not into Mother’s Day, just getting through the day with family coming, going and calling (on the phone). I disappoint my mother one more year; big deal. [Don’t even get me started on our relationship as mother and son.] And, as the night wears on, I find myself drawn to TV and this one channel that seems to be featuring a serious of biographies on famous names that have come and gone.

Last night, it was all about authors. My mind was quickly and repeatedly blown by all of the revelations that came with reviewing the lives of people I have read little about, writers of books I struggle to read and digest with any enthusiasm, with the exception of A Christmas Carol, which I consider almost as great a work as the book of Genesis in the Bible. [Just hearing that would probably stoke the fire of Dickens who wished his works would all be as grand as a colorful Bible with text, pictures and a grand cover design. Was the previous a run-on sentence? I wonder; anyway.] I learned–or, at least, think I learned, provided the information provided wasn’t skewed in any way to favor the interests/outlooks of those giving the presentations–so much about Dickens and less about Poe and Hemmingway; I felt like a kid at Christmas, sitting up all night just staring at the night sky from a frosted window, thinking about all that was and might have been. I imagined myself hugging a big, colorful storybook full of pictures and fancy penmanship and found myself drifting into rapid-firing thoughts, just as I did as a wishful kid, wondering what I could achieve with my own creativity.

Though each of the three authors I just mentioned lived in separate “neighborhoods” and different times (though there is only a slight separation between Poe and Dickens), they had similar outcomes and experiences. They were all discouraged by the world around them. Life, at the time, as it often seems now, was dismal and disappointing. It was a struggle for anyone who wasn’t seemingly handed money, status and power…or for anyone who didn’t have the sort of brain that looked at life as a simple matter of buying and selling.

These famous authors were not the sort of people who managed money well and, though ambitious once they were sufficiently prompted by publishers and neighbors, didn’t have the mindsets to turn their creativity into a profitable business model. They didn’t have the capacity for buying a social-media start-up after starting a delivery-based business or making cars just to get enough fire going to then take ownership of a grocery-store chain. Instead, they had a far more humble fire to be creative and show off their work which clashed with a machine that could only do so much with its own mindset and limited technology. The businesses these talents had to work with to get financial stability did not agree with them and tried to mold the talents into cogs (in the machine). They had families which either suffered from slaving just to get by (or out of debt worth imprisoning a parent) or died too soon from plagues (and war).

In that hard, miserable time, they found a desire to create something. And, once someone took notice of their talent and prompted them to do something with it, they became seduced by a dream and, soon after, miserable, in some ways, from what became their reality. As much as they enjoyed knowing people liked reading their creative works, they hated how the publishing business worked, how it tried to curb and cut apart their creations, how it denied the fullness of their creative genius to be shared with the world. They hated dealing with anything outside of being that creative engine. Kids and wives went from being something every normal person had to have to being a chore and hassle to maintain, a reason to fear going into debt and becoming a public scandal (because now you were famous and going broke with a family you could not adequately support, just like your parents and their parents before them). Their lives became all about turning torment and just about every waking thought they had into something worth reading and visualizing (if you didn’t have access to drawings from “Boz” which was Dickens’ artistic alter ego, so he didn’t get in trouble for poking fingers at other people with his sometimes harsh caricatures).

Even if the publishers were not putting pressure on them, they put pressure on themselves to do more, to make even better work than they had already crafted. At least, Dickens did; he was like Thomas Edison crossed with Stan Lee (Timely/Atlas/Marvel Comics); he was a zealous inventor of stories, even though many revolved very closely to his real life and circumstances. He had aspirations of re-inventing himself which unfortunately ended with an incomplete mystery novel. He died from a stroke in his 50s, trying to feverishly finish something he had not previously written, a new direction in literature.

I am not sure if Hemmingway felt all or much of that; I didn’t hear enough of his story. But, he certainly was not happy with how he turned out and was aging while trying to be consistently creative. And, he was so unhappy with the rest of the world that he ended his own life before he could become the old man on the sea, the very things he put and made famous in his creative output…unless he felt old, already, and was ready to cast himself into the sea because the world was so disappointing.

Another thing I found in common with the stories was a seemingly ignored, simple guideline all the talents could have followed to “stay afloat” and lived productive lives. It’s something that makes me continually wonder why those who have recently become so rich don’t ever stop grasping for more and simply enjoy what they got from what started as a seemingly simple “small” enterprise. These famous authors got the greatest attention from what seems like their smallest, simplest works. And, this is the key thought I want to convey to those who have the patience and capacity to process what I have to say here, today.

What’s the most famous thing you know Dickens wrote (if you even know that much)? A Christmas Carol. It’s only been made into a half-dozen slightly different movies over the past century, not to mention published numerous ways which would make Dickens’ head spin, when you think about how he struggled to get publishers to do what seems to come so easily these days. And, for what is Edgar Allen Poe best known? The Raven, which, in terms of his body of creative works, is a mere trifle of his talent.

Yet, those trifles of creative wonder, grim as they may be in at least one case, were enough to light the world ablaze with interest. It wasn’t the authors’ longest, driest work and output from reality that got the world’s attention. After all, they were unknowns living those lives they put on journal pages. No; it was a small, delicate sample of their talents that was enough to please the masses…at least, until the masses cried out for more, like little Oliver Twist (who was another metaphor for Dickens, who was said to be a child that contributed to his family’s poverty by consuming and wanting more from life than his family could provide, not because he was a spoiled, greedy child but because he was a growing fountain of creativity that demanded fuel to grow and prosper). And, if any creative soul could comprehend and settle for that small output and live off of that, they’d probably reach old age with a smile on their faces and arms full of happy family members. Instead, whether it’s their own unveiled human ambition or how they are prodded by masses and/or “the machine,” they slave away at their craft until they are overworked and more depressed than the bleak worlds they start in and which became settings in their works.

Those “old guys” were offered a chance to be published in small doses, in “magazines,” which were less expensive to print and more affordable to the masses who used what little money they made and free time they had from labors to read and/or page through something somewhat literary. The average reader that brought them fame was not someone with a ton of money or good business sense nor anyone who could afford a lavish hardcover book with golden accents, colorful paintings and a fabric bookmark. Wealthy people only managed books; they didn’t take time to read works of “fiction” (even if that fiction was “close to home”).

Okay. I’m going to be quite honest and put this on the table, right now. I only caught the very end of Hemmingway’s story, most of Dickens’ story and a chunk of the first half of Poe’s story before I had heard enough to go to bed with dread. So, most of what I have to say is inspired by the tale of Charles Dickens.

What was Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol? Essentially a bank manager…a BOOK-KEEPER. He was hoarding his “talents” (which could be translated into money) and spending all of his time and energy on keeping tabs on people’s money. He had lost his capacity for charity/generosity…until he goes through an ordeal of conscience and wakes to redeem himself just in time to save Christmas, which was probably a fairy tale to Charles Dickens; and that’s what he wanted to craft with that story, a fairy-tale book families could enjoy in a warm, friendly setting with a crackling fire and all of the holiday trimmings. He was both a representation of the money-minded management that creative folks clash with and a representation of Dickens as an old man, afraid of debt and poverty, curled up in his tiny, cramped home, ignoring the outside world of responsibility and family and love he struggled to fully grasp and understand, just as Scrooge fell in love only to lose that love when his interests took him away from her.

Then you look at Tiny Tim and Tim’s family, and you start to see how Dickens was there, too. He was Tiny Tim, barely able to stand on his own two feet until he got financial assistance. He was Bob, the father, who, like his own father, struggled to support a family he had no business starting yet couldn’t resist acquiring.

I don’t know who the Ghost of Christmas Past might represent in his life other than, maybe, his mother, who little about was said in the biography I watched. Maybe she was a kind, delicate, disciplined soul who tried to steer Eb’/Charles in the right direction while his mind was elsewhere. But, the Ghost of Christmas Present is definitely a representation of the “wealth” and glamor we see just about every Christmas season with a hidden surprise in the form of two scary, starved children, children of haste and ignorance. That moment when the spirit sheds his friendly Kris-Kringle smile to reveal those frightful youths under his robe is probably a grand metaphor for the fear Dickens perpetually felt, praying he would never end up like that, like he had already experienced as a kid with parents who didn’t invest or effectively save money. Dickens’ own children were said to be sort of hasty decisions he later regretted a bit when he no longer felt the same love he first felt when he met his wife, a woman who was willing to do anything to please him, rather than clash with him, but who couldn’t do anything to improve his outlook on life or give him a reason to stop trying and just be happy with what he had. Instead, though he was said to be a generous, kind guy and somewhat loving father, he devoted too much of his time and energy to writing stories and died before what we’d consider retirement age…and before he could finish his latest work, leaving the world an un-resolved mystery…though his life now seems rather plain to see in his creative output.

When Scrooge has his epiphany, what does he do to redeem himself? He buys a big turkey and has it delivered to the only remaining group of people who might yet open their arms to him (aside from that party with his nephew who I still find a bit questionable in terms of how they forgive Scrooge while perpetually whispering and snorting). He makes a donation to the charity-seeking gents, putting aside his doubts about their intentions and/or business ethics/model. And, he finally spends time with other people for a day. It’s a somewhat humble, generous and wishful ending to what is otherwise a chilling omen, a slow yet brief boil to cast off misery and fear in exchange for warmer thoughts, a prayer to salvage a life and holiday season rather than get swallowed up in financial concerns which peppered Dickens’ life and era. In a way, Dickens is saying we need to all forget about the cost of living, prompted by some vexing specter, and find happiness together. A Christmas Carol, I think, is his way of leaving his family with a kind note, letting them know, no matter how miserly he may become/seem, he still wishes for a happy holiday setting, not a commercial spectacle drenched in a demand for presents and any kind of spending that would leave a family in poverty.

The biography presenters tried to say the “demons” in Charles Dickens’ life, the fear and reality of poverty, the disassociation from family and conflicts involving social and economical status, were Charles Dickens’ muses, that the spirits were deserving of credit for Dickens’ creations. But, I somewhat disagree, even if the previous statement sounds true. He had the creativity planted in him from birth. The “spirits” were merely unpleasant influences spawned from circumstance and location, often enough leading him into confusion and disappointment. They might as well have been coworkers or bosses in his life, voices of peer pressure and temptation, not inspiration (at least, not encouraging, uplifting inspiration).

Had Charles Dickens lived at time or in a place and/or family with greater “financial stability,” surrounded by good friends, he surely would have written different stories reflecting some of those circumstances. Any “demons” in his life were not welcome co-writers. I don’t think he’d want a doll or statue that looked like one of those kids hidden under Present’s robe unless he sought to torture/punish himself; nor do I think he was a macabre author who took pleasure in exploring dark forces. He had to paint some people as sinister and corrupt. But, he didn’t end a story with the villain being glorified. There is no Christmas Carol Part Eighteen with Scrooge or the Ghost of Christmas Future going on yet another violent/cruel rampage. I don’t think Dickens would have intentionally written a miserable, scary story just to give people a fright. I don’t think he took pleasure in horror. But, I suppose, he had the potential in him, being the creative fire that he was. Just as I feel I have the potential to write better horror stories than all those “stupid” ones people continue to chase/see just to snicker at how dumb the “heroes” are; I don’t aspire to write a scary story and add to the horrors already crowding our world. Nor do I care to add something “stupid” to the video-rental libraries/shops…because what would be the point? There’s already plenty of “stupid” and wasted resources. I’d choose, like Dickens, to write a scary story that ends with a lesson, a fable of sorts. And, the basic lesson, regardless of content, would be you deserve what you get if you don’t heed the warning signs.

Unlike Scrooge, Dickens didn’t come out of his workshop/dungeon and say, “Hey! Enough of this business. Let’s go grab dinner and have a holiday party!” He died from a stroke while laboring to finish one more unique story to dazzle the masses. He died restless to produce and never quite satisfied.

[Yet, again, he didn’t die craving more wealth or fame. He had both, to a degree, but always feared debt/poverty. He wanted more from his creative work. He constantly wanted to be more dazzling, more entertaining, more understood and appreciated, more worthy of praise, not rich. I can just hear him saying, “Okay! I’m a talented guy! But, surely, I can do better. Surely, I can give you something better than what I already did. That was…something. But, the next one will blow your mind. You just wait.” Despite all that he had received, Charles Dickens continuously hungered for more as if all the world had to offer wasn’t enough to keep him warm on a cold winter’s night. The world’s warmth and understanding was no more satisfying than his own family/love life, yet it kept him busy.]

Like his Oliver Twist (wanting more porridge), as a child, Charles Dickens wanted more from his life. He wasn’t sitting in a room bathing in his wealth like a less miserly Scrooge. He was plotting his next great work of fiction and imagining what sort of wonderful, big book it could be. He’s like the Little Mermaid (at least, how we see her in Disney’s animated form. She has plenty of “stuff” (common elements in life too many eventually ignore) but wants more out of her life; she has an inexplicable desire for…something…for a passion missing in her life.

If you ever had to read a Charles Dickens book in school, you likely had something that would disappoint Charles Dickens, a dense but lifeless paperback reprint without pictures or fancy text. He supposedly wanted his books to be like a fancy Bible. He wanted pictures–which he drew as “Boz”–and all the fancy colorful trimmings that would make a nice, big story book worth sitting on your lap. It just was too expensive for his publisher(s) to reproduce for the audience that actually invested in books. And, if you live in the USA, you wouldn’t get much respect from him, anyway. He visited once and decided the USA was crap compared to England. Yet, he was grateful for the fans and anyone willing to buy his books and magazines.

Dickens was a child of humble beginnings with parents who lit a fire in him, whether they were aware of it or not. He didn’t want the life he had, it was placed in his hands like freshly laundered rags. And then, he was told to make something of himself…and he did. He just didn’t know when to quit, when to be content (and retire/relax).

Love, like his final unfinished book, remained a mystery to him. His family failed to provide and retain enough warmth to satisfy him. His first love interest was from a higher social class which ultimately rejected him, breaking his young heart until she returned to him as a broken, overweight woman, starved for a kind heart…and Charles Dickens rejected her. His second love interest bent over backward to cater to him, and this only frustrated the man who had such a fire within him that he desperately needed a partner with the same passion. He had married and sired kids as many do. But, as nice of a father as he tried to be, a part of him grew to dislike all that came with marriage. His love life became a heavy tax on his creative energies.

In his own humble yet infamous way, he was a microcosm of the monopolies that plague our modern world, a warning to those who refuse to be content with what they are given or even what little luck they initially have/find. Instead of having a little luck and sharing the wealth, Charles Dickens did all that he did to “stay afloat” even if it seemed like he was floating on the air of his own yet-budding fame.

When you are pursuing wealth (or fame, approval, etc.) like an insatiable monster, you are blind to the discouraging truth. Eventually, you reach a point where you look back and see how small and out of reach the real world is, and you lose the will to live. You run out of oxygen like a human being thrust into deep space without an air supply and pressurized suit to keep you alive. Right now, there are ravenous giants gobbling up enterprises. But, eventually, even they, like the giants before them, will fall. And, no measure of wealth will satisfy the fire in their hearts nor redeem them when they’re gone.

A small, humble representation of one’s talents is all that is needed to establish positive attention and fuel a lifetime. If only we could accept that and not pester others to be more than what comes effortlessly, driving countless lives to a premature and bitter end.

Writingbolt…inspired by Charles Dickens…aka Ebenezer Scrooge…aka Tiny Tim…aka Oliver Twist…aka David Copperfield…aka Boz.