anxiety Archives - American Wordsmith

Why Did I Write The Paper Pusher?

***WARNING: SPOILERS***

I essentially wrote The Paper Pusher as a way to further connect with my mother’s memory and myself as a young adult. It seems, unfortunately, that we both suffer(ed) with anxiety. And, sadly, I tend to feel closest to her when I am panicking.

As with all my work, I find them to be like fictionalized scrapbooks of my life. I have also had difficulties with my mother’s side of the family in the past. However, I will not get into any of that here.

The rest of the novel was inspired by Gypsy Rose Blanchard’s crime. She had her boyfriend stab her mother after being abused since childhood by her. It was said that her mother was suffering from Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome, which means that her mother deliberately caused symptoms of illness in her child to basically gain attention from others. It is a sick form of child abuse, and I wanted to explore the psychological impact of Munchausen on a figure like Gypsy.

Sophia is a combination of my mother and myself attempting to escape the tyranny of another, more powerful figure. But the novel never really comes to a solid conclusion since abuse takes years to heal from and there may never be full closure.

Sophia feels she has escaped only to latch onto another manipulative and dominant character in that of Damian. The pain she feels mixes with the pleasure of being able to defy her mother in a way that still remains a “known” world to her. By the end, she begins to notice his graying hair and is flung into the realization that he is not perfect or immortal and cannot take care of her forever.

While the reader may be disappointed with the very end, in my mind, it is conclusive. It doesn’t matter whether Gertrude is actually dead or not because she has been among the “living dead” for so long. She has a heart of stone and no will to change it.

The novel is a tragic one. But I hope for readers to take away yet another way of how not to live or treat others. Mental illness can destroy the lives of everyone around you. Go get help if that’s you; become better than yesterday.

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Views Expressed Disclaimer: The postings on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent the postings, strategies, or opinions of American Wordsmith, LLC. Please also know that while I consider myself an Objectivist and my work is inspired by Objectivism, it is not nor should it be considered Objectivist since I am not the creator of the philosophy. For more information about Ayn Rand’s philosophy visit: aynrand.org.

On the Current Cultural Decay

Today’s cultural climate is full of desensitized and inefficacious people who assume that things just “happen” to them. People who are inefficacious disgust me. I have always sympathized with the truly great Men who take action. I love Men who fight against those who try to stop their innovation. They have efficacy and, therefore, my undying respect.

I can still remember, having been raised Protestant, seeing men, specifically, in church kneeling and I cringed, even as a child. I thought, “How lowly and weak they look!” Fast-forward to college and another late night reading session for tomorrow’s class where I have the works of Milton’s Paradise Lost and Marlowe’s version of Faust in my hands, further empathizing with the devil and the snake and Man who desires knowledge.

My sense of life became clearer to me when I felt this ferocity rise within at Man who is refused the ability to know and refused to feel proud of knowing. After all, our tool of survival is our mind, our reason! Why must Christianity squash the very thing that makes us capable of living? I find it pure evil.

Perhaps this moment of fierce rebellion in my soul, sitting in my college’s library, is why I always seem to come back to motifs of snakes and birds, heaven and hell, God and Satan, and Adam and Eve in my work. I cannot help but rage against those who tell me not to know when I have spent all my life trying to know everything! I’ve always said that if I could have a chip inserted into my brain with all human knowledge known today, then I would.

My fear is that we can go backwards as a society. Literary fiction and other art dies in a bad or sick culture. Today, all literary fiction is tribalistic and not about morality at all. The Left has thrown morality away since they believe it is incurably tied to religion, while the Right has kept to their small Christian publishing presses to put out more of the same religious morality texts. But where, oh where!, are the secular moralists who are capable of shining through the rubbish? Where are the writers and readers who want to learn how to be better and happier living their ever-longer lives on earth?!

Why are publishers saying no to any books that are not liberal or tribalistic in nature? Why is there outrage over “literary fiction” books even existing anymore? Because our culture is dying.

I can blame liberal ideology and religious ideology to a certain extent, but beyond that I am unsure. All I know is that the worst thing an individual can do is desensitize themselves to life. And, yet, drugs, drinking, hedonism in general, even rushing from one loud event to the next or traveling all over the world without one moment to rest are causing a group of desensitized people to roam around the earth and teach their children the same. When the music dies down and the party leaves, people can no longer stand being with their own thoughts and so they repeat the numbing process over and over again in one endless cycle.

I remember when I was presenting my literary thesis to my professors in undergrad. When I finished, one commented about how they thought it was a theatrical performance because of the way I read it and openly mocked me when I said that the meaning of life was about happiness. My professors were a product, in the most extreme way, of a culture that is dying, if not already dead. They were cynical, could not take their own subject seriously, and believe that “Truth” is outside of reality. My rebellious heart raged that day, and I will never forget it. Yet, again, here is the Left telling me that I cannot know anything, just as much as the religious Right does.

Well, I refuse to believe that I cannot know how to be happy or that it is not a worthy goal. And I would rather feel too much anxiety about every little thing in my life than nothing at all. I would rather feel deep gratitude for what appear to most as “boring” or “inane” things; I would rather feel endless sorrow for a loss in my life than to drown them in drink; I would rather behave as innocently as a child, than as cynically as a manic-depressive professor. Life becomes more bearable when you know madness does not arise “out of the blue” but is built up by hundreds of little acts of transgression over time that you and the others around you never cared to notice. Being in a desensitized state is a killer to human beings; don’t let it get you next.

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On Writing and Why I Chose Literary Fiction

As far as my opinions on writing go and the way I write, I have a few tips, though I am still young and things may come into sharper focus as I age.

Ever since childhood, I have used my “microscope” to help me find the words to say. I can look at something that others would pass right over and by noticing what makes it special, then the words and ideas come. It sort of is like a meditative process. One word of warning though if you become “stuck” in this writer’s perspective, then going to overly stimulating places (which, unfortunately, so very many people are fond of today) may cause great anxiety. I cannot seem to come out of this mindset or attention to detail, so I tend to feel the need to prepare myself before attending anything loud or overcrowded (medication helps too).

By staying with these “moments,” there is in the nature of them a sense of urgency, so holding onto them with words is akin to catching them in a net. The best way to access these special moments is by becoming a soldier of the arts. You should get up and follow a routine every day that allows your mind to focus on the unique bits and bobs that stray from the norm. They become more obvious to you when you are not rushing around your house looking for the house keys before running out the door for work.

My sense of gratitude and happiness comes from the effort that goes into working with a purpose—not from sunshine and rainbows. I never aim to suffer, but I surely am willing to give it my full effort to achieve my goal that promises more of a long-lasting feeling of contentment and pure bliss.

In terms of more specific writing tips, I would say to never introduce too many characters early on (like Dickens). It becomes “crow-blowing” (unlike in Les Misérables when one character is described for many pages). Only when the readers grasp the present character can they then move on to understanding another.

I also believe that it is a corrupt idea to say that fiction does not mirror reality, but instead creates a “new reality.” Literary fiction is only meant to show how reality (singular) ought to be and what it truly means to be human. There is no “other” reality being created.

Also, in scattershot form: always give details to bring the reader closer to the perspective/experience/character; never become too focused on the environment/social over the individual; main characters without values are not worth writing about because they are unrealistic; always remember that the universe is benevolent!

To be a great writer, one must observe the world, study it, and then integrate to produce a creative product.

I love writing stories because I can walk through a moral problem that I am having from a rational (not spiritual) perspective and come to a conclusion that is satisfactory. That is why I find that outlines never really helped me because I had to work from a single scene in a logical progression until, due to contextual circumstances, I could only come to a single conclusion and that becomes my ending. Personally, it makes a book more enjoyable to write when you are unsure what the main answer is.

Although, I would say that ideas have come to me in many ways for the books I have written so far: sometimes it’s a single scene or vignette floating around in my head for a while, or the first sentence, or the last, or even just an environment that embodies an entire idea. If the idea is strong enough, then I find that I do not even need to write it down as other ideas for the next piece just keep building on themselves in my mind.

Ultimately, my desire is to bring the body back into literature—bring Man back into literature. My novels range from exploring the worst evils to the highest good done by Man. However, the naturalist movement of the late nineteenth century ripped the story away from the romanticized individual and onto the piece of land being sown with seed. Well, I would like to be remembered as the writer who analyzed a few moral topics within the philosophical branch of ethics that is set down in Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism. My goal in life is to teach people about secular morality by pointing to a time in history, such as mid-nineteenth century America, when I believe the culture was better. Literary fiction should teach and make Man better.

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On Gratitude and Attention to Detail Using a Writer’s Microscope

I have been highly sensitive to my surroundings since I can remember and this contributes to my writerly perspective. There has always been this kind of narrative voice inside my head, which comes out whenever I focus my eye on something for a while. As a child, car trips often threw me into a state of contemplation all before sleep won over my heavy lids.

Though being sensitive to everything has contributed to my struggles with anxiety, I do believe that most people could benefit from trying on the writer’s perspective on the world from time to time. I truly believe that savoring moments in life comes from being more sensitive to little, everyday things. After all, I consider that “this is it” so you may as well suck all the pleasure you can get from life’s marrow. Go look outside at each uniquely designed snowflake when it snows in winter, breathe in heavily the cool spring’s morning air, caress new buds blossoming in summer, traipse through the crunchy leaves as they fall in autumn.

I like to think of my writing as using a microscope to look at daily life. Everything I do throughout the day is not just “boring chores” or “simple cooking,” rather it’s being surprised by new spider webs to dust away or being gently warmed by the oven baking some potatoes for dinner. Life is so much richer when you open yourself up to it. Become as vulnerable as a poet or, as the metaphor stands, a priest. Learn gratitude through a writer’s perspective of the world and live more slowly.

Ayn Rand taught me to look at the world benevolently with a sense of life that worships Man. In reality, I find that my sentiments look a whole lot like many of the “slow living” and “cottagecore” and “romanticize autumn” videos out there online, only my work does not end with a biblical quote. For I do not believe that a god creates things, you do.

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On the Reader

I grew up with sensitive parents who each dealt with their own set of mental health difficulties. While I felt their love and affection during my key years of development, by seven, divorce shook my family to its core, and by eleven, death had riven it asunder. I would never be the same again and I was forced early on into the philosophical conundrum of asking “why?” Why did my mother have to die so young? Why do I deserve this suffering? Why can’t my family get along? Why is life so difficult?

Books became my way of searching for the “why” to life. It was the only way I knew how to do research. My parents both read and wrote, and so I became familiar early on with the concept of reading and escaping and learning and knowing through the page. I learned that reading and writing were my strengths throughout school as well.

That is why surface-level stories have not interested me since elementary school, when every book on the shelf felt like a gift or a piece of candy. But today, especially with so much out there, I do not have time for stories that are simply meant to entertain—not that there is anything immoral about them. But I have always wanted to learn how to be happy. I have always read literature with a purpose in mind, which is why I take it so seriously. How do I find happiness? I took the good and bad stories as a guide for what I should and should not do in order to be happy. And to do that, I had to judge.

I have learned so much more about humanity through literary fiction than any therapy session or movie or lecture in school. By asking myself why does the character behave that way, I can have a dialogue with the writer through their story. I can walk in those proverbial shoes of another human being to discover new things about myself and my own life story.

So there has always been this fire in my belly to know—to read and then compare that created world of the authors to my personal experience. Nothing will get you further in life than being honest with yourself first and foremost, and that it what I love the most about my parents. For I think they were each brutally honest with themselves and the world they lived in. I learned to never stray from taking an honest look at myself, which is what a writer must be: brutally honest with themselves and the world they live in.

Therefore, I hope that it has become clearer to you why I do not feel I have the time to read “genre fiction” but only “literary fiction.” It is not because I am being snobbish; it is because I need answers to live. If I didn’t have access to all the classics I have read thus far, then I may have suffocated a long time ago. For, you see, as a child who had no control over my external circumstances, something had to be under my control and I needed to know that life would get better and that I could make it so.

My reading and searching and effort paid off when I found the philosophy for living a happy life on earth, Ayn Rand’s Objectivism. It gave me the secular kind of morality that I was searching for and the control I craved to steer my newfound adult life into the light. She saved me from the gut-wrenching feeling I had whenever I left my humanities classes in high school but could never explain clearly. I was suffering from a public school system that rapidly became less about learning how this world works and more about how guilty I should feel for even breathing. The message of guilt only heightened in degree in college until I had to find more of a concrete link to Objectivism through the Ayn Rand Institute and all they had to offer.

High school and college life made me feel like that out-of-control child, where life was determined and I had to succumb to a fate where life was “nasty, brutish, and short” (Hobbes). I have felt existential dread before, but it was due to an entire educational system that, overall, refused to integrate. My supply of air was thinning out, and the anxiety beast inside of me rose up and fought to take over my life. After lots of therapy and medication and building up my adult life away from the school system, I am finally starting to feel like I am on stable ground again.

To me, good literature reveals truths about who we are as humans—from the best in us to the worst. In that sense, I agree with John Gardner who wrote On Moral Fiction. We need more moral fiction, not in the religious sense, but in the way that it can inspire and guide people toward virtue and against vice in order to attain happiness. Again, we have come to an age that no longer needs religion, but it most certainly still needs a moral code. Ayn Rand gave us a philosophical framework to live by such values but now, I believe, people need to see a barrage of examples of secular-based morality.

Sadly, people still believe that morality is inextricably linked to Judeo-Christian beliefs. But people must live according to the laws of reality or else they will die. And, again, going back to the Tolstoyan idea, there are essentially so many ways to die and only one way to live. Maybe that’s why reading books with tragic endings raises the hairs on our heads, because we are learning how to avoid death. At least, that is how seriously I take my reading and writing endeavors, and I hope you will too.

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