[stylist] Back to writing - why I write

Wed Aug 26 22:20:36 UTC 2015

Very nice, and such a sarcastic guide. haha
Is it bad that what I focused on was the mention of kamikazees? I used to
drink those as if I were trying to quench the thirst of a shipwreck
survivor adrift in the middle of a salty sea and had nothing but watered
down lighter fluid. Amazingly, I was always thirsty for more. And more
amazingly was the fact that my 110 pound frame still stood straight while
the big guys I drank with were all falling down drunk.
enibriation aside, I really enjoyed your story.
Eve

 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team
Editor, Tapestry, a TAWN publication
"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."

On Wed, Aug 26, 2015 at 3:03 PM, Atty via stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org>
wrote:

> I remember this! I love it now and I loved it then.
>
> So talented.
> Your Fan,
> Atty
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
> via stylist
> Sent: Wednesday, August 26, 2015 2:09 PM
> To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Cc: Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net>
> Subject: [stylist] Back to writing - why I write
>
> Some of you may have seen this before, but most haven't. It answers the
> question-why write?
>
> Enjoy.
>
>
>
>   *   *   *   *
>
>
>
> One Writer's Tale
>
>
>
> By Chris Kuell
>
>
>
>
>
> My quest to become a professional writer began late in the summer of 1996.
> I
> was in Lowell, Massachusetts, visiting the grave of Jack Kerouac. I bummed
> a
> cigarette off this other homage-payer, Keith, who turned out to be the
> drummer for the moderately well known band Phish. We got to talking, and it
> turns out Keith had recently been released from a rehab center in Boston
> and
> was making his way out to visit his uncle in Montana. Lacking direction in
> life, and having little else to do, I asked if I could accompany him on his
> trip. Surprisingly, he agreed. During the long drive, we stopped to visit
> many of Keith's acquaintances, a generally wild, all-night bunch. It was
> through these informal interactions that I acquired a taste for a drink
> called the Kamikaze and ladies that didn't shave their legs very often.
>
>
>
> Along the way, I learned that the uncle was a Native American living in a
> trailer on a reservation. Apparently, he had recently won the lottery, and
> wanted to share his earnings with all his extended family members. When we
> finally pulled into the dirt driveway about 45 miles outside Missoula, I
> was
> beat from the long road trip and ready for a beer. I had come to the right
> place. What greeted us there in Big Sky country was truly breathtaking.
> Above me, the blue heavens seemed to cascade infinitely upward. Before me
> was a giant mountain, snow capped and so surrealistically beautiful it
> could
> have been an Ansel Adams postcard. At ground level was a rusted old
> trailer,
> a mountain of empty beer cans the size of a two car detached garage, an
> eighteen wheeler refrigerated truck with a thirty foot red, white and blue
> Budweiser label on the side, and a dozen or so drunken Indians sitting in
> disarray on half-broken plastic lawn chairs.
>
>
>
> Keith's uncle, or Big Trout as he instructed me to call him, had spent
> 115,000 of his 125,000 dollars of lottery money on the truck full of beer.
> His plan was to drink all the beer with his friends and family, then cash
> in
> on the deposit on the cans, sell the truck and buy a bigger trailer. With
> about two thirds of the truck empty, it seemed things were on schedule.
>
>
>
> One evening, I was walking with Big Trout, Budweiser in hand, when we heard
> the howling of a pack of coyotes in the distance. He scared the hell out of
> me by howling back, in perfect pitch to match the animals. They seemed to
> carry on a conversation for several minutes while I listened peacefully and
> sipped my beer. As we walked on, Big Trout informed me that the coyote was
> his spirit guide, and it had told him it was time I found mine. When I
> asked
> how I was to do this, he handed me a package wrapped tightly in old
> newspaper. The package held special herbs, he said, that I should eat when
> I
> reached the peak of the tall White Mountain to the north. There, he
> informed
> me, I would meet my spirit guide, and finally gain direction in my life.
>
>
>
> A few days later I hitched a ride north with a couple of tie-dyed Dead
> Heads
> in a 1967 VW Microbus. They had stopped by Big Trout's for beer and their
> own newspaper bound packages, so perhaps they were looking for direction as
> well, I can't really say. I drove with them to Mount Ranier, listening to
> bootleg tapes of Grateful Dead shows the whole way. I don't think these
> guys
> knew that Gerry Garcia was deceased. Not wanting to rain on their long,
> strange trip, I didn't mention it.
>
>
>
> They left me off at a camping supply store, where, using my old
> girlfriend's
> credit card, I loaded up on stuff I thought I   might need. After studying
> my new trail map, I was on my way.
>
>
>
> The hike was harrowing, cold and treacherous, a narration I will save for
> another time. It suffices to say that, in less than 48 hours after base
> camp
> departure, I found myself entrenched in a crevice some 8 feet below snow
> level, starving, dehydrated and quickly entering delirium.
>
> Only then did I remember the package Big Trout had given me. Since my body
> temperature was dropping and death was becoming swiftly probable, I used my
> one free hand to retrieve the bundle from my jacket pocket. Inside the
> bundle was a baggie containing a half dozen dried mushrooms. As instructed,
> I ate the mushrooms, licking the ice surrounding me occasionally to dilute
> the horrible taste. I think I must have drifted off to sleep for a while,
> because I remember awakening suddenly to the snorting of an animal. Looking
> up, I saw the majestic head of a large mountain goat, menacing ivory horns
> coiling outwards. We stared at each other in a timeless void, neither of us
> speaking, yet communicating.
>
>
>
> "Are you my spirit guide?" I asked the goat.
>
> "'Fraid so," it answered.
>
> "Why do you say it that way?" I asked.
>
> "Cause your ass is stuck in a crevice, and I'm only a goddamned goat,
> that's
> why. I don't even have opposable thumbs, how the hell am I supposed to get
> you outta there so you can start on what is going to be an incredibly
> difficult quest?"
>
> I just looked up pleadingly at the goat. Perhaps it was something in that
> glacier water, but things didn't seem right in my head.
>
> "Here," the goat said, then turned to show me it's backside. As it started
> to squat, my initial thought was-Oh my God, my spirit guide is going to
> take
> a dump on me! But I quickly realized that he was actually just offering me
> his tail. I grabbed it with my free hand, and with surprising ease, my
> spirit goat pulled me from the clutches of the ice vice.
>
>
>
> We sat together on the snow, looking over the vast extravaganza of life
> glistening before us. I asked the goat, "So, how did you get to be a spirit
> guide?"
>
> "Oh, I used to be a writer in a previous life. Ever read any Jack Kerouac?
> On the Road. That was me. After I died, damn defective liver, I floated
> around in purgatory until the goat gig came up."
>
>
>
> I reflected on this for a few minutes before I asked, "So, spirit guide,
> what am I supposed to do with my life?"
>
> "W-W-W-write R-r-r-r-omance," he brayed, then, I swear, he began to laugh.
> It was really bizarre, this mountain goat bucking and snorting like he was
> having a seizure. Once he regained control, he continued, "Naw, I'm just
> kidding. Write anything you like, as long as you enjoy it."
>
> Writing? I had never really given any thought to becoming a writer. Seems
> like a reasonable occupation though. Make your own hours, show up to work
> in
> your underwear if you want.
>
> "But, I don't know how to write. I don't know what to write." I objected.
>
> "Don't worry," he said, " just make it up. The New York Times might even
> give you a job. Ya never know."
>
> With that, he bowed his shaggy head and butted me solidly with his horns.
> My
> coat and gortex pants offered very little resistance as I slid swiftly and
> violently down the face of the mountain.
>
>
>
> Three weeks later, I came out of the coma in Saint Francis Hospital and
> they
> agreed to let me write in a small notepad. I penned an article about the
> kind folks I partied with at Big Trout's place, and the local paper bought
> it. Eventually, I drifted back east, and now I am struggling to make a buck
> at stringing words together. Hell, at this point I'd be happy to make
> enough
> to buy a six pack. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
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