Babbitt

The number one rule of being a writer is to write, as John Gardner's paraphrased quote goes. This might seem like a logical statement but one that I think a lot of writers fail to realize. We—I am using this as a journalistic we—get caught up with our daily lives and commitments and tend to forget about putting in the work required of writing. For me, the most common distractions are booze and fantasy football. But, again, it's the act of writing, more than anything else, that separates the mice from the men, per se.

I've noticed that when I'm writing, I'm happier, in a sense, freer. I'm less likely to get frustrated and throw things at the wall. It's important to me. And the writing can be in any capacity. I write simply to hear myself typing (which is how I think Tom Wolfe has probably written most of his books—that is not a compliment). And, by doing so, I feel free. Or at least this is what I tell myself.

What people don't realize is that it doesn't matter whether you ever get published. I truly believe that statement. With that said, an online publication has agreed to publish one of my short stories. The site, however, looks like it was put together by a team of blind IT guys with epilepsy. I don't want to publicize it for this reason, but, at the end of the day, I'm published. It's not The New Yorker, but it's a start. I'm looking for something to hang a hat on and this is it. It legitimizes my efforts, but by no means settles my drive. It's perfect in this way.

It's strange that the news of this story acceptance came a week after I finished reading Sinclair Lewis' Babbitt (I have read some great books over the course of the summer—Barry Lyndon, Brighton Rock, The Autobiography of an Ex-Coloured Man, The Pickwick Papers, Monsieur Pain, Vineland, short stories by Maupassant, reread several Chekhov shorts—but I've honestly been lazy (read: drinking too much and concentrating on my own writing and fantasy football)).

With the aside finished, I must say Babbitt, a book ostensibly about a discontented businessman at the beginning of 20th c. America, touches on what it means to be free and to grow old.

"...he was restless again, discontented about nothing and everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and lonely for the fairy girl."

George Babbitt is a real estate guru (perhaps only in his own mind) who lives in Zenith, a common Mid-Westerrn city, with a wife and three kids. From the very beginning, Babbitt is restless and surrounded by friends who he believes don't truly understand him. Babbitt believes only one friend, Paul Reisling (who I seemed to read as Paul Reiser every time), seemed to truly get what Babbitt wanted—though it's ambiguous, because, as Babbitt said, "I've never discovered anyboy that knew what the deuce Man really was made for!"

As the book wore on, I felt like it shifted from a book about America and about personal freedoms (which it pounds home) and Lewis' personal take on politics, to what it means to be truly free. A life without kids, without connections, without any hindrance from making your own decisions at all times.

"For many minutes, for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he lay awake, shivering, reduced to primitive terror, comprehending the he had won freedom, and wondering what he could do with anything so unknown and so embarrassing as freedom."

I've worn out philosophy books about the question of personal freedom. I love novels about the topic. I love thinking about the topic until my head hurts. It dominates my thoughts. What does it mean to be free? None of us are, I've concluded over the years. Hampered by work or by family or by a dog you can't leave alone in the house. It's impossible for someone to wake up and think only of themselves and make decisions that will only affect them. That's where the idea of freedom becomes so hazy. You can't be free. And even fragments of freedom are impossible to come by as you grow older. Babbitt, who finds solace in the arms of another woman and spends his time drinking and carousing, is eventually pulled back into family life after his best friend, Paul, ends up in jail and his wife, Myra, ends up in the hospital. None of us, Babbitt included, can run away from commitments we have. And so none of us can be free, in its absolute definition.

"Thus it came to him merely to run away was folly, because he could never run away from himself."

I've often maintained, much to the chagrin of certain friends of mine, that to have kids is to give up on your own dreams and sacrifice the last remnants of freedom. Perhaps this is harsh and self-absorbed, but it's just my opinion. And it's flawed, but what opinion isn't flawed? At any rate, Lewis comes back to his family because he feels there is no other way for him to go. The book's ending is a homage to living through your kids, as your own dreams—whether they are of being single or climbing mountains or winning fantasy football championships—are all gone and you have nothing to do but live through your children. Perhaps this isn't what Lewis was saying, but it's what I was reading.

Now what, you may be asking yourself if you've read this far, does this have to do with anything about writing? I guess I believe that, for me, writing represents a small part of freedom. In my writing I can do whatever I want. It is mine forever and no one can touch it or take it away. I think everyone should have something that belongs only to them. Maybe Babbitt realized that, for him, his family was that source of freedom. Ironic, I suppose, and certainly not as exciting as other pursuits, but it was his nonetheless.

I suggest you find your source of freedom before it's too late. Babbitt proves that waiting too long is more of a hassle than anything else.