ECHOES IN MY MIND

ECHOES IN MY MIND

My sack is empty

Even as a child, while my mother and grandmother encouraged me to write, I often wondered what made my brain work the way it did. There were many people my age who couldn’t put two words together and make them rhyme, and yet, I never had that problem.

Same with writing a story. The words always seemed to come to me easier than others in my age category. I know this because one of our high school teachers insisted the class learn the art of writing prose and poetry. While I excelled, others did not, and as a child, I couldn’t understand why they had so much trouble with those assignments.

As I grew into my teen years then early twenties, my writing never stopped but my focus did. Poetry became the subject I found more interesting. Challenging? Nope. I enjoyed every rhyme and rhythm of every line I wrote.

One day, in the late 1960’s, I received a letter from my mom along with a clipping from the newspaper she read each day. The article was written by Daily News Staff Writer, Don Flynn, and after reading it, finally understood what made me tick.

I laughed out loud which caused my young sons to look at me as if I’d lost my mind, but I couldn’t help it. It was almost as if Mr. Flynn had found a way to read my mind, or maybe try to read it, then quickly back out saying, “Oh, hell no! Not another one!”

Taking a chance there might be others around like me, I’ve written his article to share (yes, after all these years, I still have it pasted into one of my old journals).

Here is what Don Flynn wrote:

WACHOS HAVE THE WRITE STUFF

Many people have long suspected that writers, poets, and other artists seem to live on the 13th floor of a 10-story building, and now Psychology Today says poets do not just seem a little pixilated, they really are!

When Edgar Allen Poe wrote about The Raven, he likely had real bats in his belfry, and when Dutch painter Vincent Van Gogh lopped off his ear in some artistic transport, he probably wasn’t wrapped too tightly either.

According to the magazine, a 15-year study of 30 top writers who participated in the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop found that 43% had some degree of manic-depressive illness, compared with 10% of a control group. Almost all of the writers reported mood swings, including manic states.

And according to recent reports, said psychiatrist Nancy Andreasen of the University of Iowa College of Medicine, “The proportion of writers treated for mood disorders has increased to 80%, compared with 30% of the comparison group.”

It wasn’t necessarily because some vicious, wrong-headed critic savaged the writers, either. Apparently, just being a writer or poet means being dealt less than a full deck. Or maybe vice versa. People who don’t have both oars in the water are more likely to see and hear things that others don’t and write them into visionary epics.

Just consider Dante writing his Inferno, with nine circles of basically disgusting vile torment. Is this the output of a Rotary Club booster?

Artists, particularly poets, are prone to madness, the report suggests. Manic-depressives are more creative than your well-balanced ciphers.

Hey, what do these sane people want, anyway – Dr. Seus or Edgar Guest?

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He ended with this thought: “This writer certainly understands the euphoria of a utopian or even a bestial vision, and if people think I sometimes inhabit the 14th planet of the solar system, so what? Stick it in your ear, you balanced neurotics!”

To dissect his article and try to make some sense of it, I would have to say that I have never considered myself to be manic depressed. Yes, I have my ups and down, but don’t we all? How many of us anticipate some sort of euphoric outcome of a situation only to be disappointed? It can be depressing.

Am I prone to mood swings? Yes, for as long as I can remember. I can be a complete introvert or a crazy seventy-something-year old lady who finds the undeniable desirable need to sing along with music during my Zumba class. Yes, I know, weird, right?

I can’t say I inherited Poe’s bats. At least, not for too long, anyway. I think they flew the coop a long time ago wondering where all those echoes were coming from. Must be all those crazy thoughts bouncing off each other. No wonder I have a slight ringing in my ears!

My husband thinks I’m, well, as he puts it, very weird. I am currently reading three books and pause to take time for my writing. I have one story in a hardcovered book, another in paperback format, and the third in my kindle. He wondered how I know what I’m reading. Easy, I told him. Since each book has a different story, I know immediately which one I’m about to read as soon as I open the covers. He just shakes his head and while he turns on the TV, I bury my head in the hardcover.

Now that I’m done trying to explain myself (not that I understand it), I can finish this small article and get to the supermarket before I continue with my next story.

Yes there are times when I feel like Smee from the movie Hook. When asked what he was looking for, he held up a small empty sack and said, “See, I’ve lost my marbles!”