Cindy Mantai Writing & Editing

All week, I have had ample time to write. But have I? No. I have spent many hours feeling restless. “Write,” my right brain suggests. But the Seductress, self-sabotage, coos in my ear. Her voice is soft; I have to strain to hear it. “Relax,” she says. “There will be plenty of time to write…tomorrow.” And so I go on Facebook, go shopping, watch a few shows I’ve recorded. I waste time. It is like drinking was for me. It feels like a good idea to escape from reality. After all, I deserve the break and the refreshment. And it feels good in the moment. But afterwards, I realize I have squandered opportunities. Opportunities to be Authentic.

My submission to my writing partner for this morning is two hours late. I have nothing planned for the next hour, so I will write my required 500 words and email it to him. Those 500 words will be authentic; they are part of my memoir, which will not write itself. I can feel the Seductress already assuming position on my shoulder, ready to talk me out of doing the one thing that truly makes me fulfilled. I will push her away. She doesn’t have my best interests in mind.

I type this blog entry on my MacBook Pro laptop, which I bought at the Apple Store at the mall just a few weeks ago. Today, like millions of others, I am reflecting on the remarkable man who invented it. Those who knew him are trying to capture the brilliance and philosophy that was Steve Jobs, as a way to honor his life and legacy.

Yesterday, I had lunch with two of the staff of the Western New York affiliate of the Susan G. Komen Foundation. We brainstormed ideas for how to roll out the newest initiative from the affiliate: the Pink Honor Roll, which honors those who raise $1,000 or more for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, held each June. We discussed the best way to tell the stories of these prolific fundraisers. I will have the chance to interview many of them and I have a feeling many will say they raised the funds in memory of someone they knew who did not survive breast cancer. It will be their attempt to capture the brilliance and philosophy of that person.

Several weeks ago, I helped plan a fundraiser for a scholarship that was established in memory of my son’s best friend, Matt Dungan, who died tragically in January at age 19. The night of the event, the other parents and I silently rallied around the Dungans, hoping the scholarship that honored their son’s brilliance and philosophy would in some tiny way help to ease their loss – and ours.

For that is what all of these endeavors are: human beings’ attempts to assuage the loss of someone they loved and admired. W.H. Auden expressed his despair in a 1936 poem: ”He was my North, my South, my East and West,/My working week and my Sunday rest/My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;/I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.”

I wonder if Auden felt that he hit the mark. Is it possible for any of us to adequately express the depth of our loss – or our joy, for that matter – within the finite boundaries of language or paint or song? I would venture to say that it is not. But we try; it is part of our human condition. And the act of trying helps us move on until the next time.

I’ve been completely enchanted with the King Arthur legend since I read The Once and Future King in high school. The Mists of Avalon is one of my all-time favorite reads. I am in love with the Starz original series, Camelot. And I’m even planning a trip to Wales, the idea for which was inspired by a Camelot-themed tour I saw advertised on Facebook.

I adore the idea of princes and magical swords and forbidden forests and sorcerers. I rejoice when the weak and persecuted emerge victorious, often rescued by some hidden power or a champion. I don’t have the patience to wait to inherit the earth – I want retribution that is swift and heroic. Fantasy gives me the instant gratification I desire.

This morning, I watched the Starz Camelot episode entitled Lady of the Lake. At the end of the episode, Merlin began telling the tale of how King Arthur’s new sword, Excalibur, came into being. We, the audience, are privy to the fact that Merlin’s tale is a lie, which he tells to cover up his own shame and guilt.

In fantasy, the world is extraordinary – filled with magic and myth and romance. And when I’m in that world, I can forget for a little while that I am responsible for myself and I can instead wait in hope for someone to rescue me.

There is an empty, dark place deep inside my chest. My heart lies beneath it. I have tried to fill the emptiness with substances, people, places, and things. When I first started writing, at around age 12, I tried to fill the empty place with words. As a writer friend in Rochester used to say, I would try and “write myself out of the hole.”

But I am starting to think that the words actually spring from the empty place, not the other way around. As a young person, poetry was my first attempt at trying to communicate how this emptiness felt. I described sadness as a bird that perched on my shoulder.

When I discovered reading, I gravitated toward books that were existential; I felt a kinship with the authors who described their angst with such passion and detail.

A friend asked me the other day if I believed in happy endings. The good news is – I do. Despite the gravitational pull of the dark place – which at times threatens to absorb my hope and my serenity – there is a tiny light that exists inside me alongside my emptiness. And here’s where hope comes in: I believe that this light can grow, and as it grows it can illuminate the dark place and help me to see that the emptiness has always been an illusion.