Hamartia

I’ve been hearing television static for the last two days and it’s starting to really get to me. I can hear it reverberate through the walls when my eyes are closing and from the floor just when I think I’ve pinpointed its source. The identical static someone might hear when accidentally falling asleep on the living room couch, once the lively sounds of George Lopez reruns finally shifts to a dead channel.

The optimist in me wants to relent to this ruthless sound, accept its place as inexplicable background noise and maybe it’ll disappear on its own. The maniac who’s been plagued by delirium however hears one second of this unprompted, hellish white noise and suddenly I’m scratching at my skin and crawling on all fours of my dark-stained hardwood floor.

It’s been six days since I last slept and today has been spent staggering about my studio for hours, searching for my cat with a sort of Predator-like intensity, staying abundantly hydrated on generous glasses of Johnnie Walker.

For context, my cat Shakespeare got run over by a student driver when I was just a kid, God rest his little feline soul so yes, things have gone a bit wonky over here. Don’t ask me what day of the week it is, because I can’t even recall what season we’re in, which thank goodness I haven’t left the apartment because otherwise my outfit selections would be woefully ill-informed. How much easier it was to don the same pair of sooty overalls everyday when I wasn’t walking around au naturel, but by God don’t smell them! I accidentally caught a whiff of them the other day, or maybe the true culprit was one of the many other competing odors in the place. At any rate, its putrid aroma almost jarred me out of this delirium that’s taken root in my head. I really wish it had too as this whole mania episode was becoming incredibly droll.

Courtesy of my recent fixation with redecorating and with some aggressive justifying from my drunken alter ego, I had disconnected my home telephone… with a crowbar… so it had been some time since I heard a voice other than my own. Though seeing as I haven’t spoken for days, you could say I’ve been giving myself the silent treatment.

The room stayed perpetually illuminated by a single paper lamp I’d acquired several years before on an international book tour in Japan, its soft orange glow now a great comfort during my spells of crying. At least every few hours or so, bawling like a newborn, curled up in the corner, the whole nine yards! If it wasn’t so pathetic it would almost be laughable. Actually, it likely was laughable! I can envision a live audience watching my meltdowns in rows of bleachers, howling with amusement as I melodramatically clutch my knees to my chest in agony or draw a kitchen knife to my throat menacingly for several seconds before duly hurling it across the kitchen in cowardice.

It was in the precious breaks between spiraling self-pity, fits of hallucination, and your typical intoxicated rage that I would actually sit down and get any of my writing done. I’d sit down to my trusty PC, void of any distractions (as I hadn’t paid an internet bill in months) and type out the outline for my prospective novel. It was also the only time I allowed myself to smoke cigarettes, so to my body, the activity of writing became synonymous with that sweet nicotine hit. Pretty smart huh! With a carton of cigarettes and a slug of whiskey, I might get a full page down before my hyperactive mind began to wander to another project. In my state though, who knew if this jumble of words would be genius or the ravings of a future mental institution resident. I’d have to wait for a reading from my long-time editor, publisher, and solitary drinking companion during book tours, Marvin Quillen. Marv and I had run in a few of the same circles years before I could even string a proper sentence together, frequenting many of the same clubs and women in our twenties without knowing of each other’s existence. Our first encounter took place just as Marvin had established himself as an agent within a small publishing house in the city, yet after only 4 short years of hobnobbing and scrapping, he was running its operations as president and managing a portfolio five times the size.

Many events from our first momentous evening together were hazy, but indisputably involved an eight ball, a game of darts turned violent, and at least two full bottles of tequila (Which I no longer indulge in, courtesy of this night)

I was an arrogant Columbia graduate coming off a full scholarship who thought he was hot shit because I’d won some rinky-dink writing competition whose grant ensured I could afford to dick around another year. The 20-page short submitted was hardly Tolstoy, but it was a decent short story that can’t be ridiculed too harshly as it happened to pave the way for the most meaningful introduction in my career. After my victory, I’d gone out to dive bar with the other contestants, uninvited of course as they found me rightfully insufferable, and was approached by Quillen while getting a drink. “Not a bad piece”, came the resonant voice of a man from my left while I sucked on a lime wedge, “But one might wonder why a perfectly healthy individual would turn himself an addict just to become a failure of an artist”.

“Anyone who’s stumped by that should stick to Harry Potter” I responded glumly to my empty shot glass as I’d been given a frosty reception from my so called “peers”, “Obsession isn’t always the secret ingredient to success. You can’t jerry-rig creativity just because you heard Picasso smoked opium. The fact is most of us are destined for mediocrity regardless of dedication.”

The man snorted obnoxiously in laughter which managed to steal my full attention, “No wonder these other finalists detest you, your work is positively depressing”. I remember taking Marvin in for the first time. It was the early eighties and the fashion of the moment was something of a quagmire, evidenced by the oversized leather jacket and wide-legged baggy dress pants drowning a wispy man inside. “Listen” he said, turning to face me with shark-like eyes, “All these other participants won’t make a penny writing, I mean their stories were junk”. I raised my eyebrows skeptically and he continued on, “Yours was grim but at least it wasn’t poofy like all these pretentious shits in here”, he said gesturing widely with his arms to the remainder of the bar, “Fiction’s been changing. All our up-and-coming authors are writing books on uncovering government conspiracies or busy ripping off Stephen King to focus on what true masters of fiction do”.

“And what is that”, I’d questioned warily, conscious of the eavesdropping group of graduates from the competition circling a table a few feet away, bristling with anger at the man’s pronounced dismissal of their writing.

The man chortled again, oblivious to the animosity around him, his blond shag bouncing against his shoulders, “They live life first, then write about it. Just a feeling but I’m imagining you’ve already lived more than all your fellow contestants combined, and so” he rapped the counter with a hefty gold signet ring and two drinks appeared instantly, Marvin picked one up and raised it in toast, “To life, may it continue to educate”.

From that night on, ol’ Marv and I were thick as thieves and when rubber ultimately met the road, he gave me feedback on my first real piece. Granted, practically every paragraph had been massacred with his trademark Montblanc, but following an infinite cycle of rewrites, came the beloved story that broke my name into the headlines in a very emphatic way. Nevertheless, careers progress as they do in this industry and only by continuing to feed the insatiable maw of entertainment meant that one would continue to stay relevant and make any real living. Sure my writing improved as time progressed, but with it, grew my inexorable fear of returning to the muck of where I’d been born, and thus, I produced several consecutive projects of second-rate drivel that even Marvin had been grudging to release despite an assured paycheck. It was a steep flight up with a serene decline and when I’d been summoned to a dubious café in Chinatown, I’d thought only about how to beg for mercy. It turned out not to be a euthanasia but an intervention of sorts. A beseeching from Marvin and several writers he also represented to forgo my “quest for wealth” as they so poetically put it and return to a place of true artistry. Reason did stand on their side however, as I’d gone from a Pulitzer nominated debut author to scraping the bottom of the Times Bestseller list for a couple of weeks.

“Listen Quinton”, I could recall the thinly guised exasperation etched in my publisher’s voice like it was only yesterday, “It’s been no secret you haven’t been yourself of late, and we all feel that in order to get back to your true level of talent, you must truly pledge yourself to the craft so to speak”, the entourage he’d brought as backup all nodding emphatically like good little sheep. “Well what might you suggest Marvin”, I’d asked languidly, choosing to cede my focus to a fly that had been scampering across the bald head of one of the other authors, a behemoth in the historical fiction space but a closeted white supremacist when the wine was flowing.

My publisher leaned eagerly forward and I could sense the fervor of his proposal, “Lean into your inner Hemmingway man, your spiritual Hunter S. Thompson. Delve into some monstrous underworld or electric adventure that will produce real inspiration” he swiped at perspiration forming on his forehead. Gone were the days of his slight figure. After finding success in the publishing world courtesy of yours truly and the other writers at the table, he allowed himself to swell up like an inflatable gorilla staked outside a disreputable car dealership. In truth, I found my friend’s new paunchy body repugnant but if what Nietzsche said on friendship was true, I’d be better off averting my eyes. “Well Marvin, I hardly think dosing myself with LSD and terrorizing the Las Vegas strip would be very productive towards my writing schedule”

“Well damn your schedule”, Quillen retorted hotly, “Do you remember when I took you on. It wasn’t due to natural talent you know”. I winced and the other authors at the table became decisively interested in their watches or the menus, anything to distract from the blustering scene unfolding before them. “I took you on because I thought you understood to write was to live intrepidly. Don’t tell me I’ve bet on the wrong pony because I never do”. I threw up my hands in surrender, “What would you have me do Marvin, truly?”

“I’d have you do whatever the hell it took to write something of meaning!” His face began to glow a tomato red and the endless flow of Asian passersby began to look over curiously.

“I don’t care if you have to become an alcoholic or a Scientologist. A coke-head or philanthropist, whatever you must do.. Until you send me a chapter that fascinates me like it once did, I will not publish another book for you”, he said, emphasizing this last point as if he were a parent punishing his disobedient child.

This statement certainly grasped my attention. Growing up in true southern poverty, deep in the sticks of Georgia, I’d no doubt developed an unhealthy relationship with money. Given the monstrous success of my first book, there was no shortage of nicer apartments or newer cars I could indulge in while staying “financially solvent” according to my robotic accountant whose bland office was conveniently located just down the street. But like a penny-pinching scrooge, I hoarded what money wasn’t spent on mementos from my book tours or on my usual tab of fine wines. Those poor college students who collected for the Salvation Army and Unicef didn’t know what kind of greedy maniac they were dealing with when they knocked on my door!

I had attempted to generate a response to my publisher’s ultimatum, appealing to our long standing friendship and diverting the subject to if the man had recently lost weight because he looked fantastic, but he held his hand up definitively. “I’ve said all I needed to, reach out to my office when you have something serious”, and with that, Marvin hoisted himself to his feet with great ceremony while his lackeys who detected an exit gratefully followed suit posthaste. As they left me at the table with the bill, Marvin placed an oversized mitt on my shoulder “This is what they call tough love Quint, I believe in you and know you will make a breakthrough the likes of us have never seen”. That last bit seemed to have a touch of sarcasm if you ask me but regardless, that whole mess gave me plenty to think about at the time.

Initially I paid no mind to my publisher’s advice. I mean who was he to tell me to sacrifice my physical health or standard writing process for inspiration. The majority of novels produced nowadays were here one day and gone the next. An endless supply of fluff for your local bookstore. It wasn’t until I’d sat in front of the computer, nestled in my surgically clean apartment surrounded by expensive objects from all over the globe that I became nauseated with myself. How far I’d come, only to compromise myself for meaningless tchotchkes and a fatter payday. How incredibly stereotypical of me, absolutely no originality in this corruption of the soul.

Admitting defeat and succumbing to Marvin’s counseling was not an easy decision, but creating indelible fiction was no easy task and my ambition for perpetuity in name had not died yet. Well Marvin, I hope I’ve done you proud, because I spent the majority of today putting out cigarettes on the wall in the charming likeness of a German Shepard. Channeling my inner Hunter S. indeed! I’d just finished this masterpiece and made the uncontested decision to break open another bottle when an incessant pounding noise echoed throughout the apartment. I froze mid-pour, my heartbeat immediately starting to thump against my chest like the downstairs neighbor who’d batter at the floor beneath me when I’d stagger around drunk at all hours of the night. There was a pause and I sat up straight listening intently; another moment passed and the knocking intensified, emanating from my front door. I crept gingerly towards the front door, hoping all the while that this unexpected caller would rightly buzz off. After another lull, my visitor began kicking my door and I immediately knew who this must be. The wretched television snow that’s been driving me mental mercilessly ratcheted up in volume as I let out a dragging sigh and unlatched the locks, concurrently preparing myself for the inevitably unpleasant conversation that awaited me on the other side.