Creative Nonfiction – July 2019

(Brent) #1

4 I’ve often found myself embarrassed when describing classic narrative structure to a bunch
of lusty undergraduates: standing firmly at the whiteboard, marker gripped in hand, I watch
the word CLIMAX appear at the top of my graphic hillock, and hope they aren’t thinking––
who am I kidding?––what I’m thinking.


5 D. H. Lawrence has a lot to answer for and was my original inspiration. See his fiction and
essays for both an examination of sex as life-energy and its practical application in driving
forward a compelling narrative.


6 A verbal gush, perhaps?


self-same pattern of arousal, orgasm,
and comedown.^4
Isn’t this what we feel when we’re
in the full flow of our writing? The
rising of the creative sap, the slow
building and unclenching of tightly
packed inner tensions, a kind of inte-
rior Women in Love-style naked brawl,^5
followed, if we’re lucky, by sustained,
explosive release (the high point of the
scene, or epiphany, finally detonating),
then the high-density aftershocks,
our wild, spent energy draining away,
leaving us breathless and meditative,
thrilled with (and sometimes a little
embarrassed by) what we’ve risked:
with what’s been liberated out into
the world in that moment of radical,
audacious revelation.^6
In personal narrative, our writing
practice mirrors a specially concen-
trated version of this high-energy arc.
During the rising action and at the
high point of releasing our own story
onto the page, we connect with both
our self and our imagined reader in a
rare and profoundly personal way; we
share who we are at an almost cellular
level, leading, if we get it right, to a
sense of mutually achieved unity. Like
Sendak’s mischievous Mickey cavort-
ing naked in his hungry, treat-filled
night kitchen, when we get it right, we
are in the story, and the story is in us.

hitting the spot
I suspect each writer’s libido functions
differently: we are shy or like things
on the feral side; we like a ménage

à trois (or more!) or self-imposed
restrictions; we like artificial stimula-
tion, deep commitment, laughter,
toys. I take weeks over a single story,
loving it, rejecting it, undressing it
over and over, getting tangled and
hot and hungry in the process; I talk
(tenderly, occasionally dirtily) to my
pages; I like my notebooks a particu-
lar way, sleek and hardworking; I get
disappointed when things don’t work
the way I hoped. Others, perhaps, are
aficionados of the quickie or can see
their way blindfolded. Maybe you are
in that wonderful first flush when the
desire to write seems never to run dry.
In which case, stay in that bed and roll
in it!
Regardless, this art requires energy
that gets sapped from us in great
surges and requires replenishment.
Writing is exercise, a dynamic work-
out, and we need to rest well when
we’re spent, to stop and feed ourselves.
It’s all too easy to forget this and end
up incapable, unwashed, unhappy,
our blood sugar dipping dangerously;
sustaining the effort requires us to
develop a practice akin to Tantra, that
hyperconscious, hyper-embodied,
mindful expansion and slow release of
energy that brings about intense satis-
faction: a chakra-cleansing awakening
that won’t drain or actually kill us. In
short, the same things that make us
good lovers make us good writers. To
succeed at either endeavor, we must
open ourselves to adventure, to new
experiences, to kink, if you will, and
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