A Threat to the Regulators: Vanessa Cavendish
“who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry–the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter.” — e. e. cummings
I first read that in, I think it was seventh grade, before I’d been so much as felt up, never mind syntaxed. But that didn’t stop me from knowing a thing or two about courtship and poetry, both. The first of which is that folks come in two sizes of stupid: those who know the rules and follow them, and those who don’t. I hate to break it to you, but you and I are more alike than you might be thrilled to admit.
Meaning what, exactly?
Meaning that most of the time the best of us will fail to venture out of that first category—the category of the small, of the follower, of the tell-me-what-to-do-and-I’ll-be-a-good-self-starter-I-swear-I-will-if-you’ll-just-give-me-a-chance-and-read-my-query-I-slaved-over-it-it’s-gonna-sell-like-nobody’s-business-and-make-you-and-me-rich-rich-rich-just-please!
There’s a reason why so many of us speak in such tiny and irrelevant voices.
Nothing gets regulated unless it somehow, someway represents a threat to the regulator. That’s a fact of nature, not a rule I made up, and it applies to kissing and telling stories equally. This list of regulators includes, to name a few, People Magazine and Facebook and Goodreads and your English teacher and rapists and publishers and your parents and your agent and your best friend who just wants you to be happy. In other words, regulators are not inherently evil, they just want to be in control. So add me to the list and, while you’re at it, yourself, too.
Kissing, done well, is an act of grace and power and promise. It is a prelude to poetry. When lips rhyme with lips and fingers find their rhythm, form goes out the window and in walks danger.
With a posse of grammarians to insist you wear protection.
The dirty truth is that neither fertility nor contagion will ask permission to cross your bodily or literary premises. When we’re highly charged, we neglect to think about the social, political, moral and practical implications of our speech and behavior. We are liable to shed such useless accoutrements as panties and the prefrontal cortex. We go to a deeper, stupider place where the muses do the heavy thinking. We go there in order to wholly kiss one another. To sanctify our bruises. To get with our genetic legacies and provide for the continuation of the species.
I’ll try and not speak for your muse, but mine, you may rest assured, gives not a rusty fuck for dependent clauses or the agreement of verb tenses. She grunts like a slut and bucks to fill a need that’s got nothing to do with how I define my genre or whether an agent might get me a better deal on a sequel. Because why? Do I need to point out that the poor dork who’s got one eye on your word count and another on your Twitter following has traded true mastery of the situation for a poor attempt to control the outcome? I can’t begin to tell you how wrong-headed, how mean-spirited, how downright unloving that is. You need to dump him pronto. He is not. I repeat: Not. Trainable. Simply getting tested for viruses does not make him a good match for that fine whore of a goddess that’s got you on your back again.
The thing is, you can teach a good kisser how to get the job done in 140 characters if you need to. Or iambic pentameter or whatever the form requires. But you cannot. Never could. Never will be able to teach that part of you that cares more about how many hits your blog got last week than whether you spoke your mind or, god forbid, your heart.
Let me put this in plain English for you. The minute you float a question about your plot twist in your Facebook group or ask your writer friends to vote on whether your heroine should have green eyes or amber, you have entered the zone of the incorrigibly little. Want to take this to the mat with me? If your muse works at Surveymonkey, I am here to tell you, you are both in the wrong line of work. You are making out with a little boy who took a dare to prove himself to his buddies, not to you. He is only dimly aware that you exist, he is the worst kind of liar, and everyone around you knows that he’s lousy in bed to boot. So why do you keep him?
If I tell you why, you might hate me. I can live with that if I have to, but I can’t abide him correcting you all the time for your own good.
You keep him because you are afraid. (I almost said, “of your big girl voice,” but let’s not get cute.) You are afraid that your reputation will suffer if you once fuck like you mean it in a public place. If you take down your defenses and dismantle your readers’ armaments in the process, they might take offense at you.
And what? Look the other way? Talk about you? Not read you?
Listen to me. You were not put on this planet to write a best-seller. No one was. That’s the god’s honest truth, no matter how much you can think you know better. If you’ve bothered to read this far, you might be here to figure out how to observe and tell the truth in the form of a story that gets down and dirty with the reality of pain and the beauty of kissing. Or the beauty of dying. Or the terror of loving. And you might, in the process, agonize over the possibility that the protagonist you got naked with last night might not show up for a second date. And if he does, you might legitimately wonder whether he will pay for dinner this time and provide for the children you neglected to mention—those brats from your first marriage, if you can call it that—or at least keep you entertained enough to want to support his good-for-but-one-thing-and-one-thing-only ass—on a contingency basis.
Your writing life is a private party, I know, and I don’t mean to invite myself and my advice for no cause whatsoever, so let me tell you why I care.
Because when you get naked, you begin to think not for your puny self—which is another way of saying, for your career, for the marketplace, for the sake of your imaginary status as a literary figure or popular icon or whatever passes for cool in your circle; all that shit is truly none of my affair. No. You begin to think and behave the way a human being is born to think and act: for the species, for the tribe, for the long-term survival of the gene pool. You begin to tell stories with the mind and heart and spirit of a moral and social animal, a shamaness, a fertility goddess intent on keeping order in a universe whose rhyme scheme has a deeper, longer, holier scansion to it than we can imagine with our pants up and our skirts down.