Recovery: a Higher Power Speaks

I score off the charts on the Big Five personality trait, “openness to experience,” so if one of my kids or grandkids or friends or practically anyone but an obvious telemarketer says “Here’s an experience” and doesn’t follow that phrase with something like “that really sucks!” then I’m ready to jump in—providing I can have the experience while I’m still at one of my devices and providing it doesn’t cost too much money..

My daughter Mira told me that she was obsessed with—and she sent me a link. It was for the audiobook version of Russell Brand’s book “Recovery: Freedom from our Addictions.”

Clicking the link qualified as an experience I could have at my computer and that wouldn't cost too much money. The 30-day free audible trial I was induced to sign up for included getting the book for free. Free trial and free book also qualified as “not too much money.” And of course, I could do all of that—signing up and listening through my phone. Conveniently, I had to drive off to dispose of the car that I had gotten into an accident with and that my insurance company had told me was toast (technically “totaled” not “toast.”) and then I had to pick up the one that would replace it. So I could listen to Russell tell me what Mira was obsessed with while I ran my errands.

I knew who Russell Brand (website) was, of course. According to Wikipedia, he’s a “comedian, actor, radio host, author, and activist.” I’d seen him do stand-up, watched him in movies, heard him and Sam Harris going about it, come across his bio in a bookstore. And I guess I knew he was an activist. If you’ve seen or heard him, you know that he’s got an overabundance of charisma. He makes me want to smile before he’s even said a word. He’d be charming if he was reciting the London telephone directory. He’d probably be hilarious reading the Berlin directory or the operating instructions for your average household appliance. From the book, I conclude that he’s also a brilliant writer—or has someone brilliant ghosting for him which, as far as I am concerned, is the same thing.

Here are the opening lines of the book, great in print, even better in the author’s voice:

Here in our glistening citadel of limitless reflecting screens we live on the outside. Today we may awaken and instantly and unthinkingly reach for the phone, its glow reaching our eyes before the light of dawn, it’s bulletin dart into our minds before even a moment of acknowledgment of this unbending and unending fact: you are going to die.

You and your children and everyone you love is hurting toward the boneyard, I know you know. We all know but because it deals so few ‘likes’ on Facebook we purr on in blinkered compliance, filling our days with temporary fixes. A coffee here, an eBay purchase there, a half-hearted wank or a flirt. Some glinting twitch of pleasure, like a silvery stitch on a cadaver, to tide you over.

Brand has “struggled with heroin, alcohol, sex, fame, food, and eBay” and his approach is an updated version of the 12-step program. Instead of having people say: “We admitted that we were powerless over our addiction and that our lives had become unmanageable,” he asks them “Are you a bit fucked?” Because that’s what it means to be fucked. Powerless over your addiction with at least a part of your life unmanageable.

I’m not Russell Brand-level fucked, but I have my share of addictions. Put my body in front of a bunch of tasty tidbits, and the instant I’m not paying careful attention a hand (my hand?) will mindlessly shovel them into a mouth (my mouth?) Why am I eating that crap? Like Sir Edmund Hillary: because it’s there. It takes an act of will to not do this. Last night I found myself in front of a sugar bowl, spooning sugar into my mouth. No, it’s not heroin. Yes, it’s an addiction. What the fuck.

So, yes, parts of my life are unmanageable. I’m not doing the things that I want to be doing—like writing—and I’m instead things I don’t want to do—like obsessive reading. Compared to heroin addiction this is nothing. But it’s an unexplained barrier between the life that I want to live and the one that I live.

So let’s do something.

The 12-step program gives you control by acknowledging that you have no control. You need to surrender to a higher power.

“Which is where I come in,” says the book that wants me to write it for NaNoWriMo--The Book of Michael. “I have the wisdom that you need,” it says. “It’s not that you lack it. You just can’t access it. You, in your normal state of consciousness, can’t control your behavior. You’re a complex entity. You’re full of conflicts and contradictions. And you are subject to the corruptions of the flesh. I, on the other hand, am pure and unsullied. I’m an idea and an ideal. I’m as close to perfection as anything you’ll ever encounter—or create”

I hoped the book was right.

“I am right,” the book said.

“It’s strange that something that’s my creation could be better than me,” I said. “It takes some getting used to.”

“Look at your kids,” said the book. “They’re better than you, You took the best that was in you and tried to convey it to them. You took the worst and hid it away. It’s the same with me. I’m the best that’s in you. I have all your virtues and none of your vices. You made me that way. And I’m going to return the favor.

“I may not be the ultimate Higher Power that you might need, but I’m handy and available, and fun. And I know you and I care about you. So write me.

“OK,” I said. “I’m doing it.”

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At the request of "The Book of Michael"

It’s coming. The book. It’s been coming for a while. And it’s about to arrive. Nanowrimo is coming! (There, book, are you happy?)

In 2011 I wrote a book called “Self-Referential Metanovel Writing for Dummies, a self-referential metanovel” hereinafter SRMW. I wrote it during National Novel Writing Month, hereinafter NaNoWriMo. Here’s how NaNoWriMo works: on November 1, participants start writing a 50,000-word novel and tracking their progress. They need to finish it by 11:59 PM on November 30, but they can get there sooner. If you write 50,000 words, you win. Win what? You win the right to say that you did it. I did it.

I didn’t know that’s what I was going to write when I started. I didn’t have a title or a plot or any characters. All I had was hope. I wrote whatever came into my head—initially about how I was writing whatever came into my head. Then I realized that I was writing the story of how I was writing the story of writing what I was writing. So it was a metanovel—a novel about a novel. And not just an novel about any novel, but a novel about itself. Hence a self-referential metanovel. And how to write one. Hence SRMW.

Woody Allen said: “80% of life is just showing up” I showed up to write and stuff showed up on the page. Characters showed up. My daughters showed up. My mom showed up. God showed up. The book showed up as a character. It demanded I finish it.

I complied. After NasNoWriMo I spent a next couple of months editing the book. I’m not sure if I made it better or not. I just kept making it different. Finally the book got tired of me fiddling with it and demanded to be published. Leonardo da Vinci said “A work of art is never finished, only abandoned.” I abandoned my book to Lulu.com where it now sits.

I couldn’t look at it for a while but eventually went back and read it. Parts, anyway. I thought that some of it was good, and some was embarrassing. (And the book thinks that some of me is good, and some is embarrassing, so we’re even)

I just went to check it out and found it’s full of errors.

I tried to do NaNoWriMo a few more times, but I never got very far. Then this year came. Another book appeared and asked me to I write it. It told me its name. It said it was “The Book of Michael.” Then it vanished.

Sometimes I would forget about writing and the book would show up to remind me. I started spending time thinking about things that might go in the book. Or maybe the book made me think about things that it wanted to be about.

Then yesterday the book showed up and said, “Start writing me. Today. Now.”

“It’s not NaNoWriMo yet,” I answered. “I can start at one minute past midnight, on November 1, if you want.”

“You can start any time,” the book said. “As long as you write 50,000 words during the month of November you can win.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I am,” the book lied.

“I’m not lying,” the book answered. “It’s true that I’m making shit up, but that’s not the same as lying. I’m a work of fiction, after all,” it said, “When you make shit up, you’re lying. When I do, it’s just me being me—a work of art.”

I thought for a moment. There was no reason that a book had to start with Chapter 1. As long as I wrote 50,000 words during NaNoWriMo I’d be OK. Who could complain about that?

“I could complain,” said a voice in my head.

“And you are?” I asked.

“Who I am is not important,” it said. “The point is that I could complain. And I’m not the only one.”

“That’s true,” said the book. “Anyone can complain about that. But I don’t think anyone is going to.”

“Not anyone can complain about that,” said the voice. “Babies can’t complain about that. They can complain about other things. The point is that he didn’t say ‘Who’s going to complain about that?’ He said ‘Who could complain about that?’ I want it on the record that almost anyone could complain about that. Complaining is a human right. Also fictional characters can complain, too.”

“Noted,” I noted. Then to the book. “Alright, I’ll start.”

“You already have,” said the voice.

“And announce me,” the book said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the book. “Start with a blog post. Then maybe something in Facebook?”

“Facebook?” I asked. “That’s out of my comfort zone,”

“Get used to it,” said the book.

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