Helsinki Station January 2006
Sex (got your attention, didn’t I?). A cold beer on a hot day. Seeing your children born. Merlot. Slow food. Friends. Family. Good health. Brisk winter air. Spring rain. Cool rivers on hot summer days. Flaming autumn leaves. Grandchildren. A job that you love. Faith. Bald eagles. Osprey. Wolves. Moose. White pines. Mountains. Lake Superior. Springsteen in concert. Discovering new music. Sibelius. History. Old buildings (like the one above). Traveling to new places. Reading. Writing. Finishing a manuscript. Helping. Being helped.
I haven’t been diligent about keeping up with this blog thing. I’ve been preoccupied. There’s work. There’s teaching. There’s fathering. There’s husbanding (OK, I’m pretty sure I just made that verb up). And yes, from time to time, even OCD crazed writers like me need sleep. And exercise (not enough, my tummy tells me!). So I apologize to you, loyal readers, for not putting out a bit more effort to keep you engaged. Anyway, I’m here now, typing away, trying to think of something profound to say about what’s been going on with Sukulaiset: The Kindred my latest fiction effort. A big project, no doubt. Three countries. Eight decades. Three wars. Hundreds of characters. And, at last count, 160,000 words. My words, all lined up in order, ready to meet the world. Or not. But a column about the book can wait. Something’s been rattling around in my brain that needs to be explored. Here goes.
All creative types have doubts and demons. The trick for writers and artists and musicians is to try and keep the little specters that bedevil us on a short leash and not let them loose on the world. Sure, we need those demons close by, nipping at our heels, propelling us forward. But the consequences of releasing the clasp and letting our inner beasts roam at will, well, that can be catastrophic, sometimes deadly. Remembering the good stuff can help keep a tight leash on those nasty beings that bedevil creative types, can help defend against the ordinary self-doubting that is part and parcel of any creative process.
Here, in a bucolic small town alongside one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, two Minnesota writers chose to end their lives nearly a decade apart. Now, I won’t pretend to understand suicide. This isn’t an essay about loved ones’ recognizing the signs of depression and getting their family members, who just might be writers or artists, help. I’m an ordinary human being possessing ordinary thoughts and musings, trying to make sense of what happens around me. When I ran into a piece entitled “The Secret Lives of Stories” in the most recent issue of Poets & Writers magazine (Jan/Feb 2013) it got me thinking. A dangerous thing, getting me thinking but something that happens from time to time.
Anyway, in the piece, contributing editor Frank Bures describes an encounter he had with beloved Minnesota essayist, Paul Gruchow (The Necessity of Empty Places) when Frank was a wide-eyed student in a creative writing class taught by Gruchow. Bures’s essay is part of an annual effort by Poets to instill a sense of joy and inspiration in would-be authors (like me) who buy the magazine. Hence, the title of the entire issue: Inspiration. Bures has written a solid, reflective piece about not only how generous and open Paul was with his time and his wisdom: He also laments, upon learning of Gruchow’s suicide years later, how unknowable and unpredictable human nature can be:
What I heard from Gruchow was this: Writing, creating, something so beautiful that it may outlast you is so important that you must be prepared to suffer for it, and then keep going on…That may also be why the news of Gruchow’s death, so many years after we met, filled me with a deep and unexpected sadness. It was sadness born of the realization that while I thought he and I had been reading from the same script, perhaps we weren’t…
Paul Gruchow (B-Montevideo, MN; D-Duluth, MN)
Powerful language, that. And it reminded me of a recent funeral I attended of another Minnesota writer, Duluth News Tribune and Minneapolis Star Tribune journalist Larry Oakes. Larry too, apparently, succumbed to his demons. Like Paul, Larry was in his fifties (Paul was 56, Larry was 52) when life, apparently, became too much. I never had the pleasure of meeting Paul Gruchow but as you can tell from this piece, I greatly admired his work. I did meet Larry Oakes a couple of times. Our most recent contact occurred when Larry and his wife Patty, a childhood friend from the neighborhood, were in front of me as parties in a court case. Beyond that, Patty introduced me to Larry at a public event or two and that was the extent of my connection to Larry Oakes. Except that I knew his writing. In fact, one of his articles about my uncle, Willard Munger, made it into Mr. Environment: The Willard Munger Story ( p. 515). Of the hundreds of articles and editorials written about my uncle over his 88 years of life, Larry’s piece stood out. His writing compelled me to include it in the last section of the book, “Afterword: Remembering Willard”, an elegy to one of Minnesota’s most ardent conservationists. Like I said, I didn’t know Larry personally. But from the anecdotes told by friends and family and co-workers at his memorial service, it seems abundantly fitting that a guy who loved to canoe and fish and camp had his writing included in a biography about “Mr. Environment.”
Larry Oakes (B-Mpls., MN; D-Duluth, MN)
Working on my novel-in-progress, Sukulaiset, I’ve followed my time-tested formula of spewing words on paper through my keyboard (hopefully in some sort of order that makes sense) and then imposing my half-cocked story upon friends and strangers. As I’ve written before, this book, this project, and all the feedback, both negative and positive, has prompted the kind of internal struggle…No, that’s not the right word. Journey. That’s it…the kind of internal journey that sorely tests a writer of sound mind. I can’t imagine the psychological torment a project like Sukulaiset would have on someone battling depression or other serious mental illness. All of us can recount the names of artists and writers and poets and musicians who have left this world by their own hand far too soon. And we can recount, from a distance, the diagnosis that each of those souls wore as a label. But we can’t really understand. We can never answer the question why. We can only remember. And appreciate the gifts they gave us, the good stuff they shared with us, during their short lives.
In honor of these two fine writers, I’d ask that you follow this link:
http://www.pw.org/content/ben_arthurs_bone_and_heart
Author and musician Ben Arthur has fashioned a beautiful tribute to Paul, Larry, and all the other writers who’ve passed on using Paul Gruchow’s own words.
Peace.
Mark
