Why I Chose to Write
By Kathryn O’Neill
It’s taken me years to finally admit it to myself-- but I think I may be a
writer.
First, I was impressed by grainy black and white film images of people pounding
furiously at their typewriters or staring desperately at a blank sheet that was
about to be torturously put through the wringer, destined for the same fate as
its siblings that lay crumpled up in a nearby wire wastebasket-- I identified
with them immediately. The writer images, I mean, not the trash.
On vacations, I was drawn to the former abodes of famous literary figures. In
Ireland, while admiring William Butler Yeats’ enchanting thatched cottage in the
woods or strolling some street described in a James Joyce novel or peering
apprehensively at the forbidding doorway of Bram Stoker’s home, I felt the awe
one is supposed to feel only in churches, in the presence of beings greater than
our mortal selves. I was confused, just like those Maritimers confronted by holy
images of inexplicable origin on the side of a Tim Hortons.
When I started smoking, it was merely in subconscious imitation of writers I had
read about. I would inhale moodily, drink in hand, and wasn’t comfortable until
I could see the smoke hanging Hemmingway-like in ethereal blue spirals
throughout the room.
But while still in my salad years, my very green talents were trod upon by “the
critic.” Not that “critic” is the right word for such a personality, but no one
has yet invented an entirely accurate word to describe this personality. For
while much criticism can be useful, even when it is harsh, this person posed as
a critic only to thwart the budding abilities of others, thereby endowing
herself with a greater feeling of power. I think she became a politician.
However, despite the criticism, the muse would not be silenced. I took refuge in
the world of art, and became a more than adequate artist. A painter, to be
precise, and I took great joy in manipulating colors and shapes into subtle and
meaningful forms whose relationships were more important than their material
substance. To me, they were just like words-- gateways to explore our inner
reaches, enabling us to communicate those findings to others.
I loved to draw upon the inspirations of other artists. I would often quote
Dali’s famous saying, using my idea of a Spanish accent, “Ze only difference
between myself and a madman…is zat I am not mad.” This would always make me
laugh somewhat hysterically and cause the listener to squint one eye slightly in
suspicion of the veracity of my words.
The images other artists created would frequently float their way onto sections
of my canvases like one of Marc Chagall’s dreamy brides. These characters would
begin a new dialogue with my own freshly-painted figures. Sometimes they would
feel sorry for me, all alone out there in the rigid non-fantasy world, and speak
to me, too. Like the time I painted the statue of “The Kiss” sitting on a giant
Monopoly board. Any innocent passer-by would have wondered why I was laughing so
at the painting I had just finished, but Dali would have understood. For when I
finished the picture I realized that the statue covered up the letters P, O, L,
and Y , leaving M-O-N-O… “Mono” (a.k.a. “Kisser’s disease”).
When I would ask other people what they thought a piece of artwork meant, I was
frequently surprised by the highly personal nature of their interpretations. I
thought this was a great way to get to know people, much more revealing than a
long conversation in a coffee shop. Maybe I could use this idea to start a
dating service-- a foolproof way to weed out the weirdos from the get go,
thereby preventing the need for future restraining orders.
While my painting career lasted for some time, there were always “the words,”
telling me that I should write… but I couldn’t quite hear them. I was a deaf
person who had not yet learned to read lips. They were messages written in lemon
juice, and my toaster was broken.
Oh, sure, here and there I would write a line or two-- jot down a witticism, a
haiku, or perhaps a quick limerick:
Lovely triplets, all born in Clonmell
Had faces like angels, they tell
Life can sure be perverse
Ugly ducks in reverse
For now all three of them look like Hell!
But one day the message came through …from my paintbrush. I was working on a
piece that explored the relationship between images and the written word-- and
there it was, in big vermilion and crimson letters: WRITE. I felt compelled to
obey, and sat down to write my first complete story since the time of “the
critic.” The pen was apparently mightier than the brush.
At this point, I have two confessions to make. I am a writer. And very little of
this story is true. I can go on no longer with this tale, perhaps because I have
simply run out of fuel in my imaginary gas tank, or possibly due to Catholic
guilt. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I wrote a lot of lies today.
But it was a fabulist exercise, I think. For while completing it, I wandered the
halls of the creative labyrinth; I invented another version of myself with
problems different from mine (which allowed me to temporarily unload my own
burdens as easily as a backpack); I mused upon fond memories; felt the
comforting presence of other writers and artists whose fingers have hit upon
similar keys so many times. And I got to play with words, manipulating all the
little pieces to make them add up to some bigger picture, like the jig-saw
puzzles of my youth, or those words on tiny magnets you can arrange randomly to
make surprisingly good poems on your fridge door.
I also distorted the facts and didn’t get in trouble for it, neither ending up
at the principal’s office nor accused of perjury in a dank courtroom. “Guilty!
Off with her head!” Despite the absurd cries of the critics, those Red Queens, I
will not have to lose my head after all-- for writing is highly therapeutic,
right?
Most interesting of all to me, in those hallways I stumbled upon a few more of
what you could call “structures”-- those Platonic forms found in all the arts.
No matter the medium, they step out of the mists like old friends and there is
instant recognition. They invite you to hang things on them-- words, paint,
musical notes-- and without their support, it would all just be gibberish. They
are the backdrop for all great theatre.
Lastly, there was that thread of humor winding throughout the maze, leading back
out of the labyrinth for now just as the mythological Ariadne found the way out
and escaped the fearful Minotaur…for no one can stay down in the subterranean
land of writers and other artists forever. Too much bull.
Kathryn O’Neill is an artist, writer, and teacher living in the Toronto
area. Originally from Montreal, she graduated from McGill University and went
on to teach art and numerous other subjects to students of all ages. Much of the
inspiration for her paintings and writing derives from marvelous sights and
cherished experiences of the many lands she has traveled to. Ireland and all
things Irish hold a special place in her heart, for feisty Celtic blood runs
through her veins. She believes this heritage to be somewhat to blame for her
most prominent characteristics-- a natural artistic bent and mildly twisted wit.
