a writer's writer

There is a space between waking and sleeping when I sometimes feel myself falling into what Douglas Coupland referred to in his first novel, Generation X, as “disasterbation”. Urbandictionary.com offers two definitions of this neologism, the first referring to the voyeuristic thrill experienced on witnessing natural disasters; the second, unintentional physical injury sustained after dangerous pleasurable practices, not necessarily onanistic.

Might I stress that I refer here to Coupland’s definition, which, not having the book to hand I cannot quote verbatim, but as the word – a contraction of disaster and masturbation – suggests, relates to the practice of indulging one’s neuroses by letting the mind explore dark fears relating to the self or loved ones: imagining my dog, if were I to own one, being run over, for example, or my best friend P falling off his bike and being killed; this being the “disaster” part of the equation, with the “bation” bit relating to a healthy mind’s ability to self-heal with consolatory images.

So, in the case of my hypothetical dog, after the image of him laid flat in the road, he is immediately upright and alive, his back legs replaced by those mini-trolleys you see sometimes on maimed dogs and which make you long to know how they cope with running downhill. Or, in the case of P – no backwheel scenario redemption possible in this instance, this being, in my nightmare visions, the way he meets his end - the moment when I step out before a gathering of his friends and family and deliver, through barely held-back tears, the eulogy at his funeral.

This eulogy comprises a single quote discovered in a Joyce Carol Oates essay, Reading As a Writer: The Artist as Craftsman, about the notion of literary influence in writing; or, rather, the notion of seeking out literary influence, the practice of a kind of applied or active reading, of reading, as the essay title suggests, as a writer. The quote is taken from a letter by Chekhov to a friend in which he writes of Tolstoy’s illness:

“I dread Tolstoy’s death. If he died, a large vacuum would be formed in my life. In the first place, I never loved any human being as much as I do him. I am an unbeliever, but of all faiths I regard his as the nearest to me and one that suits me best. Second, when Tolstoy is part of literature, it is easy and agreeable to be a writer; even the knowledge that you have not accomplished and never will accomplish anything is not so terrible, for Tolstoy makes up for all of us. His activity justifies all the hopes and expectations that are pinned to letters…”

So much of my friendship with P is mediated through our reading and our writing; so much so that we often give each other gifts of nice metaphors or lovely phrases. And sometimes, we give each other books. This Christmas just past, I found a book in our local shop which seemed to me the perfect present: an anthology of essays by writers on their friendships with other writers.

I bought the book and wrapped it up and hid it in my room. But I am terrible at keeping secrets: shortly before we were to exchange gifts (his to me turned out to be a jumper from ebay with a hole under each arm), we were browsing together in this same shop when I pointed out a copy of this same book. Wouldn’t that make a lovely present for someone, I said. P sniffed disdainfully. He has a big nose: it was a big sniff.

I unwrapped the book and returned it to the shop which they exchanged for a book voucher. P exchanged the voucher for a book by a writer I don’t much care for.

And Chekhov, I am happy to say, did not outlive Tolstoy.