Storytellersunplugged

It’s a known fact that deadlines can cause hives, hypertension, hyperventilation, hair loss, and hernias (The latter is a condition inherent to lifting heavy objects (i.e. the computer) with the express intention of tossing said heavy object out the window.)

Of course these symptoms can be associated to stress, but in a writer’s life, I think stress is an altruistic term that’s used to mask the true identity of the culprit determined to weaken us. That culprit is Ms. Muse, an egotistical, sadistic bitch, who fills your head with the promise of something fresh and exciting, then when you rush to the keyboard to make it concrete, she decides to take an extended coffee break, leaving you with a blinking cursor, an antsy editor, and a nervous agent. Add to that life’s simple challenges—the refrigerator that needs restocking, the phone that won’t stop ringing, the dust bunnies that have turned into allergen-infested jackrabbits because you’ve ignored them for so long—and, yeah, I can see where hives might become an issue.

Although I’d been warned by other writers about the effects of Ms. Muse’s antics and the challenge of writing through life’s little issues, it took me a while to catch on. Over time, though, this writer eventually learned to work through Muse’s insubordination, unplug the phone, turn a blind eye to jackrabbits, and pizza delivery continues to be the alternative to an empty fridge.

But no one ever warned me about terrorists and hurricanes.

My soul went numb after Katrina. So many deaths, so much destruction, too close to home. For the first two weeks, I felt like a traitor and an insensitive jerk every time I sat down to write, deadline or no deadline. The words, any words, felt trite and trivial in the face of such a disaster. People had died, more people were dying, and one of the most beloved cities in my state was sitting under six feet of water and sludge. How could anyone write past that? Why would anyone want to? Life’s priorities seemed to do an abrupt realignment, and I was consumed with thanksgiving for the safety of my family, prayers for those still suffering, and the need to help in any way I could. It was the same after 9-11. Disbelief and shock ruptured any pretense to creativity.

It took two months before I could write again after 9-11, and although one would think I’d be frozen for much longer with this catastrophe falling in my own back yard, I’ve found that not to be the case. In fact, the opposite is true. After going through an avalanche of emotions that volleyed between grief and fury, something seemed to click inside of me, and I began to write—and write—and write. I don’t know if it’s because I’m Cajun or because my stories are set in Louisiana, but I became consumed with an overwhelming sense of duty to have these southern voices heard.

Yes, it would have been easier if Ms. Muse, who I’ve come to call ‘Ms. Thing,’ had cooperated some months ago. If she had, I’d be way ahead of schedule. But it doesn’t matter now. Something bigger drives me, and Ms. Thing can either choose to come along for the ride or keep her pretentious ass in hibernation for all I care. I’m a writer dammit, and come hell AND high water these voices will be heard.

–Deborah LeBlanc