Just One Last Thing

I am not known for being succinct, in my fiction or in my life. I will use a thousand words when one hundred would do. Or even ten. It's the reason I don't write flash fiction and even the short-shorts cause me all manner of grief. I once split a three thousand word story into two shorter stories without losing anything in the context. The "end" of one of my stories-- what I might consider to be the perfect ending with the perfect "last words"-- is likely to come at page ten while the story stretches on for another five pages. Yes, I edit. Yes, I try to get back to those best "last words." But still more words creep in...

I do not fear silence, but I do fear being misunderstood. Hence the verbosity. I need to explain myself-- again and again, if necessary-- to make absolutely sure I've gotten my point across. I want no mistakes or misunderstandings, I don't want anyone to wonder what I meant by that. I will take a statement and reword it as many times as I have to until I'm sure there is no ambiguity to my meaning. Having said that, I just realized I must be the most boring person in the world to talk to and I'm not sure my reading my fiction is much better. Eek.

Maybe I'm not quite that bad, but it feels like it. When I scroll through an email exchange and see long blocks of text (by me) followed by one or two lines (by someone else) again and again... I wonder: do I say too much-- or do other people simply not say enough? I have my opinion, of course. You can guess what it is.

I love words. I love the turn of a good phrase. I love the perfect parting shot, the last lingering whisper before sleep, the memorable ending to a heated debate. I love conclusions-- I just rarely do them right. I want to, don't get me wrong. I want to make sure the last thing I say on the page or at the door is remembered forever after. But my mind is as messy as my emotions and my life, and so I take that tangled mess and try to fashion it into a pretty braid of words and phrases designed to hold your interest. In my insecurity, I don't know when to stop braiding and just walk away. It's a curse, really.

I am a fan of the romantic comedy-- and yet, I loathe them. They always end with the perfect last scene, the perfect last words. In fact, each and every scene of a romantic comedy ends like that-- with the characters saying exactly what they're supposed to say at exactly the right moment. Would that life were like that, eh? Maybe there are other people who can throw out that great punchline or cutdown or heartfelt romanticism and just... let... the... words... lay. Not me. I admire people like that, the strong and silent type, the quiet reflectors who only pipe up when they really have something meaningful to say. Me? I will beat the horse until it's dead, resurrect it and beat it to death again. In my writing and in my conversations.

I wish that my life operated like a film. Where the devoted lover always says the perfect romantic thing, where the betrayer always confesses with little more than the prompt, "Just tell me the truth!", where people don't wait until you're dead to let you know how they feel about you, where there is closure in every relationship. I can't even get closure when I deliberately set out to get it and actually use the words, "I just wanted some closure on this situation." Before I know it, I'm all tangled up in a new set of issues that had nothing to do with the old set of issues and closure is something I only get with a door.

Last words, last lines, stay with us long after the story or novel is finished, perhaps because they offer the closure most of us never really get in life. There is no wondering what happens tomorrow or next month or if there will be a text message addendum to that goodbye email or if you'll have second thoughts and change your mind a year from now. There is no changing your mind in fiction, there is no changing anything. The end is the end in a story or novel-- unless, of course, there is a sequel.

The Words Fly Free

By Lisabet Sarai

"The paper burns, but the words fly free."

- Akiva ben Joseph (c.40-c.135) (at the stake, when the Torah was also burned)

We are all destined for dust. Not exactly a pleasant thought to be contemplating on this rainy Saturday afternoon, but mortality is a truth that no one can dispute. Sooner or later, we will vanish from the earth. Life will go on without us, presumably; we will, most likely, not be in a position to know.

Of course, death is fundamentally a mystery. Perhaps we simply cease to exist. Perhaps we are reincarnated as someone else - with or without memory of our former lives. Perhaps we're shuffled off to some eternally blissful paradise or agonizing realm of punishment (although I personally view these alternatives as unlikely). Maybe the material world is nothing but a dream that will dissolve when we cross the threshold of death. At that moment we'll understand that we are beings of pure spirit, joined into one Being.

Since the truth is unknowable, mostly when I think about dying I consider what I'll leave behind. No children. None of the great scientific discoveries I expected to produce when I was in my teens. Certainly no riches! No, all I can hope for is a small circle of friends and family who may mourn my passing and remember me fondly. And of course, my writing, which even in this ephemeral digital era may still survive.

I feel a bit sheepish, considering the sum of my oeuvre as some kind of legacy. A half dozen smutty novels, a hundred or so naughty stories, a couple of notebooks full of poems: is that really all I'll bequeath to the world at large? I don't harbor any illusions that I'm a Great Author, that my writing has some sort of serious significance or speaks to the Human Condition. At the same time, I do mention my writing in my will. When I die, it will all belong to my brother, who's also a creative type though in a different realm of the arts.

Regardless of its literary value, my writing has made a small difference in the world. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of people outside my personal sphere have read my work and been entertained, challenged, possibly moved. Even if I were to die tomorrow, my words would remain. My erotic visions would endure, living on to enrich the fantasy lives of those who happened to encounter them.

When I sat down to pen this post, of course I went to Google first. I found a page with hundreds of quotes (http://www.mapping.com/words.shtml): clever, humorous, ironic, inspiring. The one above struck me as particularly relevant to anyone who is a writer.

Rabbi Akiva was a Jewish scholar and martyr, executed by the Romans for his faith (and according to some accounts, for supporting a Messianic rebellion). He was talking about the Torah and the Talmud, written works of great spiritual and historical meaning. I realized, though, that all words have a spiritual dimension. They are more than marks on paper (or bits on a hard drive). Words create realities. Even my sex-drenched novels have that power. Their ability to alter the world transcends their physical form.

Think about your favorite authors, the ones whose reading changed you forever. They may be long gone, crumbled to dust, but their words endure. I'd like to think that when I die, my words, too, will fly free, ready to alight on a reader's shoulder and spark her imagination.

I doubt that I'll manage to be as witty as many famous individuals at the moment of my death. However, I wouldn't mind borrowing my last words from Errol Flynn (1909-1959):

"I've had a hell of a lot of fun and I've enjoyed every minute of it."

When I'm gone, I hope that my readers continue to have fun. I could hardly ask for more.