Echoes in My Mind

Echoes in My Mind 

I have nothing in my bag. 

I used to wonder what made my brain function the way it did even as a small child, while my mother and grandma urged me to write. Though I never had that issue, many people my age couldn't put two words together and make them rhyme. 

The same is true in tale writing. In my age group, the words always appeared to come to me simpler than others. I know this as one of our high school teachers forced the students to grasp the craft of writing prose and poetry. I excelled while others suffered; as a child, I couldn't understand why others had such much difficulty with their assignments. 

Growing into my adolescent years and then early twenties, my writing never halted, but my focus switched. Poetry became the subject I found more interested in. Challenging? None at all. I enjoyed every rhyme and rhythm of every line I composed. 

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 story was written by Daily News Staff Writer, Don Flynn, and after reading it, I finally grasped what made me tick. 

I laughed out loud, which drove my tiny sons to look at me as if I’d lost my mind, but I couldn’t stop it. It was almost as if Mr. Flynn had found a technique to read my mind, or maybe try to read it, then immediately back out yelling, “Oh, hell no! Not another one!" 

Taking a risk there could be others around like me, I’ve written his article to share (yeah, after all these years, I still have it tucked into one of my old diaries). 

Here is what Don Flynn wrote: 

WACHOS HAVE THE WRITE STUFF 

Many people have long imagined that authors, poets, and other artists seem to dwell on the 13th level of a 10-story tower, and now Psychology Today claims poets do not just seem a little pixilated; they really are! 

When Edgar Allen Poe wrote about The Raven, he definitely 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 outstanding writers who participated in the University of Iowa Writer’s Workshop indicated that 43% had some degree of manic-depressive disorder, compared with 10% of a control group. Almost all of the writers experienced mood changes, including manic episodes. 

And according to recent data, 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 always because some harsh, wrong-headed critic savaged the writers, however. Apparently, just being a writer or poet involves being dealt less than a complete 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 imagine Dante building his Inferno with nine rings of extremely filthy, horrific agony. Is this the work of a Rotary Club booster? 

The report finds artists, particularly poets, are prone to madness. Manic-depressives are more creative than your well-balanced ciphers. 

Hey, what do these sane individuals want, anyhow—Dr. Seus or Edgar Guest? 

+++++++++++

He closed 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 that in your ear, you balanced neurotics!" 

To dismantle his work 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 downs, but don’t we all? How often do we anticipate some sort of pleasant finale of a predicament simply to be disappointed? It can be dismal. 

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

I can’t say I inherited Poe’s bats. At least, not for very long, anyway. I guess they flown the coop a long time ago, wondering where all those echoes were coming from. It must be all those wild thoughts bouncing off each other. No surprise, I got a slight ringing in my ears! 

My husband thinks I’m, well, as he puts it, extremely weird. I am currently reading three novels and halting to take time for my writing. I have one story in a hardcover book, another in paperback format, and the third in my kindle. He questioned how I know what I’m reading. Easy, I told him. Since each book has a separate plot, I know immediately which one I’m about to read as soon as I open the covers. He merely shakes his head, and when he turns on the TV, I bury my head in the hardcover. 

Now that I’m done attempting to explain myself (not that I understand it), I can conclude this brief piece and hurry to the store before I begin 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 took up a small empty sack and cried, “See, I’ve lost my marbles!”