Write Yourself Sane

“It came from the woods. Most strange things do.”
— from “Through the Woods” by Emily Carroll

As someone who likes moody gothic horror, I was drawn to Emily Carroll’s graphic novel “Through the Woods,” which offers five beautifully, gloomily illustrated tales.

These deliciously doom-laden confections are united by a preoccupation with the shadowy, often predatory and unwholesome things that come out of … and sometimes venture into … that most primordial and archetypal of locales: the woods. The pictorial style is pastoral, vaguely 19th century, sometimes rich with color; sometimes a subdued monochrome scene is enlivened by jarring swathes of red, as if an artery had opened out of the black ink of the page.

As a side note, I’m not a voracious reader of graphic novels. I dip into them occasionally. I’ve read a few significant ones such as Art Spiegelman’s unforgettable memoir of Holocaust survival, “Maus,” but I’m far from an expert.

I know that reviewing a graphic novel means you can’t approach it purely on a literary basis. You have to look at it as a package, a literary and visual experience in which the words and pictures go hand in hand, often with the pictorial component staking the greatest claim for our admiration and attention.

This might sound obvious, but I put it in writing as a reminder to myself: Don’t just talk about the words. Talk about the pictures! (In college, I got an A minus on a paper written for a music appreciation class about Mozart’s “Don Giovanni.” The “A” part was because the teacher said my paper was well written. The minus was because I stayed in my comfort zone and wrote almost exclusively about the narrative elements. The teacher, whose grading was perhaps generous considering it was indeed a music course, commented: “You hardly said anything about the music.”)

“It was a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, with a smile that showed all his teeth.

Back to “Through the Woods.” It begins with a tale, “Our Neighbor’s House,” about three sisters left to fend for themselves in an isolated house when their father goes off hunting. An ominous visitor, a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat “with a smile that showed all his teeth,” comes calling in the night, seeking out each of the sisters in turn.

A riff on the “Beauty and the Beast” motif follows in the form of “A Lady’s Hands are Cold.” (Carroll has a gift for titles that put a chill in the atmosphere from the start.) A young bride. A magnificent, lonely castle. A brooding mysterious groom, cold, handsome and remote. And a grisly secret hidden in the walls that suggests this young bride is not the first young beauty to grace this imposing home, and not the first to be wed to its master.

“She told her of the man-shaped thing that lurked in the cellar of her childhood home. How its bone-white face, with its piano key teeth and burnt-out eyes, would peer up from the bottom of the steps.”

“His Face All Red” is a story about brothers. One is shy, retiring, lacking in confidence. The other is handsome outgoing, blessed with a splendid cottage, a comely wife, and the respect and admiration of all in the village. Together, the two hunt the beast that is terrorizing the village. But what really happens? And why, afterward, is the popular brother glimpsed hanging out at the village pub … when he is supposed to be dead?

“My Friend Janna” is a young lady with, seemingly, a psychic gift … but her loyal companion Yvonne is the one who can really see spirits. Is the one she sees hovering over Janna a blessing … or a deadly curse?

In “The Nesting Place,” Bell, grieving for her mother, comes to live with her brother and his bride, a tall and elegant beauty named Rebecca. But Rebecca is not all she seems … or perhaps she is something more. Her secret has to do with things that squirm and crawl in a cave in the woods. Things that Bell overhears Rebecca talking lovingly to.

“There are wolves circling in the dark.”

The stories are united by themes of jealousy, distrust, familial loss and bitterness. All paths lead to and from the woods. There, wreathed in the fetid damps of the tree-choked forest, Carroll unveils the darkness of the human heart.

Carroll’s gift for character delineation is impressive. Sometimes they are dashing, full of life. More often, they are sulky, lumpy and non-prepossessing. Our attention is arrested by odd, disquieting details. Why does Bell walk with a brace? (Well, why shouldn’t she?) All of these characters are unique, living, breathing individuals. None will be deterred from the grim little journey destiny has mapped out for him/her.

Is this a novel, or a series of horror comics tied together with a thematic bow? The endings are not as twisty and pungent as the best of “The Twilight Zone,” certainly not assumption altering like “The Sixth Sense.” Rather than lean strongly on a sense of narrative resolution, they leave us feeling uncertain, haunted by questions and disquieting visuals that gnaw at the memory.

The images linger on. A grinning white face peering from a cellar’s dark recesses. Three sisters stretched out in a stuporous languor on a living room rug. A woman’s face transformed into … or is it revealed to be? … a sea of red spaghetti-like strands and teeth. Disembodied lupine eyes and fangs hovering in darkness outside the frame of a child’s window.

The woods, with its wicked secrets, awaits your pleasure.

Buy “Through the Woods” by Emily Carroll from Amazon.com and read Emily Carroll’s blog.

“From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books.”
George Orwell, “Why I Write“

I’ve worked as a professional writer for 30 years, since graduating from Columbia in 1985. I make my living in what they now call marketing writing, but what used to be called other things like public relations or copywriting. I live in that world 8 hours a day.

At the end of that day, I want to work on something else, something closer to my heart: fiction writing. I’ve dabbled in it all my life, off and on, but, now in my early 50s, I’m feeling a new commitment to it. About a year ago, I plunged back into it, thanks to some help from some good friends, a very good reading/writing group, and an excellent writing class here in Tucson, AZ, where I reside.

The thing is, for the better part of a decade prior, I was not writing. Nothing felt good. Sometimes I strapped myself in for Nanowrimo (that’s National Novel Writing Month). I’d write my 50,000 words in the 30 days of November but end up with an ungainly mess that I could barely stand to look at, a child I’d rather leave on someone’s doorstep than take responsibility for. Sporadically, I’d produce a globule of writing, which would end up residing uneasily on my hard drive, not knowing if it was wanted or not.

The years when I wasn’t writing productively were bad. I felt lost. I had a job, and family. But no purpose. And no sense of my own identify. I was just a guy taking up space in the world, like the writing fragments taking up space on my computer.

But when I started writing again, I found myself again. As the writing muscles flexed, and the words began to flow, I felt as if my very life juices were beginning to flow again. I knew who I was. Why I was on this planet.

That’s what I want this blog to be about. Sure, there are many reasons to write. Fame. Fortune. Sex. Money. In that order. (Actually, if it’s those four things, any order will do.)

But the best reason to write is to stay sane.

Yes, sane. After all, it’s a tough world out there. It’s not always fun. The news is wall to wall with hatred and craziness. It’s a Kellogg’s Variety Pack of shame, violence, inhumanity, vulgarity and Kardashians.

The world can wear you down, trample on your joi de vivre and take the starch out of your sunflower. If you are meant to write, born to write, I believe you will lose your sense of self if you fail to do so. In Orwell’s words, you will outrage your true nature.

As Ray Bradbury said: “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”
(Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. I was lucky enough to hear you speak once, and I’ll never forget it.)

That’s what I’m going to try to do this with this blog, jotting down thoughts on writing, some heady and high flying, some practical and soil-based.

I’ll talk about books I’ve read, movies I’ve seen. Conversations I’ve had. Classes I’ve taken. Journals I’ve submitted stories to. Anything that feeds the spirit and charges up the creative batteries, and leads you to write, write, write.

I have a corollary to Bradbury’s sentiment, a parallel sentiment but one perhaps with larger implications for leading a satisfactory life. It’s a motto to remember for any of us who have carried around large baggage, letting the weight stifle our heartsongs from ringing out loud and clear.

In the Gnostic text known as the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus says: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

So bring forth. Write. Yourself. Sane.

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