I soon as I saw it on Facebook, I knew I had to share this video of the last minute of the Cincinnati Bengals/ Pittsburgh Steelers game on Sunday, September 27. Let me first say that in this family we are Bengals fans, through thick and (very often) thin. There is something about this video that gives me goosebumps. What is it about sports and competition that brings out the freak flag flying fanatic in the fan? I wonder if a writer could elicit such a reaction after reading a particularly awe-inspiring passage. What would happen if I let my avid reader freak flag fly at an appearance by Charles Frazier, Elizabeth Gilbert or Zora Neale Hurston (although she is no longer with us)? I know exactly what would happen. I’d be in the cheap seats jumping up and down, adoring and cheering, clapping and high-fiving everyone around me. I’d gladly make a fool of myself because that is what fantastic writing makes me want to do. When I watch the video of the Bengals fans abandoning all inhibitions and letting that super-fan freak flag fly I know exactly how they feel.
The first time I read Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier I was so impressed with his writing that rather than being motivated to work on my own prose I felt ill-equipped to even write a grocery list. To my mind, the fact that there was a novel as poetic as Frazier’s in the world was enough to make me put down the pen forever. It was as if I had eaten the best bite of food in existence and knew I should never cook or eat again for fear of disappointment. But in reality, I became hungry again for the written word. And eventually found Frazier’s example an inspiration of what can happen when words are strung together in that intangible, perfect order.
The birth of my deep admiration for authors was in high school when I read Their Eyes Were watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. The final page of the novel is genius and I distinctly remember reading and rereading that page and then hugging the book to my chest as if offering a token of thanks for the author. I’ll share the passage: Hurston’s protagonist, Janie, has just returned home to a small town, her young lover Tea Cake, is dead and her future uncertain,
“The day of the gun, and the bloody body, and the courthouse came and commenced to sing a sobbing sigh out of every corner in the room; out of each and every chair and thing. Commenced to sing, commenced to sob and sigh, singing and sobbing. Then Tea Cake came prancing around her where she was and the song of the sigh flew out the window and lit in the top of the pine trees. Tea Cake, with the sun for a shawl. Ofcourse he wasn’t dead. He could never be dead until she herself had finished feeling and thinking. The kiss of his memory made pictures of love and light against the wall. Here was peace. She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes! She called her soul to come and see.”
Whether it’s football or excellent writing, I’m always delighted to have the opportunity to call for my “soul to come and see.”
