Hunter, Seuss and Me

It's indescribably intriguing to me why a guy like Hunter S. Thompson would take his own life. His was so full and amazing that it makes the average American feel incredibly insignificant. But the more I read about the man, the less remorse I feel about his death.

Certainly I feel sad, devastated almost, over his loss. He had great talent, and now that he's gone, naturally I feel sad. I feel sad for his wife and for his son who have lost a man who was clearly one of a kind. I feel particularly sad for his granddaughter who, of all people, gave him the nickname, Ace. How cool is that. She didn't call him Grandpa or anything like that. She called him Ace. Right on!

But I don't feel sad for Hunter. Not that anyone should necessarily feel sad for any person who takes his own life, but this was what he wanted. This was how he wanted to go.

No, the person I'm most sad for is me. I'm allowing myself this selfish moment because I feel I missed out. You see, I'm sad because I can't really claim to have any great connection with Hunter. I can't claim to have read every book he's ever written. I can't claim to have even read more than a fingernail's worth of his stuff. But I've always been fascinated by pretty much every single thing I've heard about him. I've never stumbled upon a column or something he'd written and not stopped to read it. I used to read his Rolling Stone pieces when I was too young to understand what he was even writing about. But I understood good, creative writing.

Really though, I'd have to say that I'm mostly sad because I'll never get to meet him. It would have been nice to be able to look him in the eyes and see the electricity that surely hid behind those peepers. I would have enjoyed an evening up at his ranch in Woody Creek, Colorado. Drinking some tall boys, and maybe shooting golf balls out of the sky in his backyard.

I'll never have that chance, as it turns out. But at least I can claim to have been inspired by every word of his that I've ever read. I want to be able to say that he's the reason I wanted to be writer. That's not true, however. He's a reason that I want to write, but at the same time, he's also a reason that I'm afraid to be a writer. Who could ever imagine trying to write in the shadow of a man of his caliber?

But I'm also afraid to write for fear of failure.

Having that fear is probably cause enough to consider hanging up the pen. But I don't expect to ever do that. I hope I never do that. There's too much to write about, too much to say; too many emotions to convey. And I'm not going to be famous for pitching in the seventh game of a World Series, so this may be my best shot.

I once wrote a letter to Hunter S. Thompson. I never heard back from him, but I have this fantasy that I'll check my mailbox one day to find a letter from him. It would have been one of the last things he sent out, lost for these couple weeks, until finally being set on track and delivered successfully to its intended destination. My mailbox. The voice of one of the writers I most admire speaking to me from the grave.

But that letter will never come. No, I have a feeling I'll be waiting for that letter for an entire lifetime.

I did once get a letter from Dr. Seuss, though. That's pretty cool, if you ask me. I was a kid and wrote to him asking for an autograph. I explained how Cat In the Hat was one of my favorite books and he sent me the note you see here. (This is an actual scan of my letter from him. I should sell this on eBay.)

Now if ever there were two writers at opposite ends of the spectrum it's Dr. Seuss and Hunter S. Thompson. Yet, they were such opposites, that they were almost touching on the other extreme, making them remarkably close after all. One wrote of crazy adventures that he'd been on. Adventures caused and facilitated by the use of countless drugs. True stories, certainly embellished by the liberties granted to all of us writers, but stories so fantastical that they could hardly be expected to be real. Stories that no man could conjure up out of the blue.

The other man, however, might have been able to conjure such stories. Theodor Geisel, also known as Dr. Seuss. And drugs would likely not have been involved. He wrote Green Eggs and Ham on a bet that he couldn't write a book using only fifty words. As it turned out, he could.

So as I write this, three weeks after the passing of Hunter S. Thompson, and 13 years, five months, and 10 days after the passing of Theodor Seuss Geisel, I find myself alone in the literary world. What writers are left to inspire me? Which wordsmith will show me a level of creativity that has not been seen before? Is there one out there? I say yes.

As I write this I glance to my right and scan the authors who adorn my bookshelf. Richard Russo, Neal Stephenson, Chekhov, Dosteovsky, James Joyce, W.P. Kinsella, Jerzy Koskinski, Jimmy Buffett, Mark Twain, Billy Collins, Dylan Thomas, Albert Camus, H.A. Rey, Jerome Holtzman, Hemingway, Dom DeLillo, Raymond Chandler, Donna Tartt, Diane Di Prima, just to name more than a few. All of them are great writers in their own right. Their styles range as much as their genres. What significance does this list provide other than as a means for me to attempt to feel as though I'm a well-read individual? The significance is that there are no books there by any of the three writers I've written about here. There is no book by Hunter S. Thompson. There is no book by Dr. Seuss. And there is no book by me. Of course, that's just because the books written by me are on another shelf.

The point is, that there are a lot of incredibly talented writers out there. We all need to look for inspiration from one someone. All of the names above have inspired me in some way, though some more than others. From time to time I like to open one of these books and read a paragraph or two. Sometimes that can provide pages worth of inspiration. Other times, it's no more than a moment in passing.

But in two clicks of an instant we can go from blocked and dried up, feeling like we have nothing to say and nothing to contribute, to feeling like our pen/pencil/keyboard is in direct contact and perfect harmony with our creative brain. We've got something to say and we're able to express it perfectly. Then there are the days when we know we've got something to say and it just doesn't seem to come. The words struggle to fit together.

I feel like today is one of those days.

Surely, Thompson and Seuss both had their days where the words struggled to come. We all have. The trick is to write through that. If words are put onto paper, sentences naturally get formed. And once you have several sentences put together, you have a paragraph. Before you know it, there's something there. It may not be good, but it's something. That's when you go back, rewrite, edit, add paragraphs, remove paragraphs. That's sort of how this column came about.

But you could probably notice that.

I just read an anecdote about Thompson related by his neighbor and friend, Don Johnson. (Yes, that Don Johnson.) Johnson told this story at the private memorial held for Thompson. Apparently Johnson once asked Thompson to describe the sound of one hand clapping. Thompson then slapped Johnson across the face. I don't know how many times I've wanted to bitch-slap Don Johnson, but Hunter S. Thompson did it and even made the guy laugh about it. Now that's pretty cool.

Every generation has its writers who defy explanation. Hunter was not your typical writer. He was brash and irresponsible. He invented a style of journalism, known as Gonzo, almost by accident. Dr. Seuss was an artist. He created children's books almost by accident as well. The icons he's created - Cat in the Hat, Horton, Sam I Am - will live for generations to come.

Anyway, Hunter S., rest in peace. We will miss you in a box. We will miss you in our socks. We will miss you, you old fox.

I'm of the philosophy that it's important to share funny and creative things with others, so check out this link. It's good stuff. And you should navigate the rest of the site. And if you live in Chicago then you should go the Beat Kitchen on Friday night (yes, that's tomorrow) and see this guy's band, The Tallest. And you should do this now.

The Tallest