Perfect Timing

Joseph Heller died on Sunday, December 12, 1999. Seeing as though I have just realized this fact, nearly five years late, it came as a bit of a shock. Lately I've been struggling, one might say, with ideas of future greatness. Although I can be a patient person, when it comes to something swirling in my mind, there are two things I do. One, I immediately jot them down and become instantly disappointed with my lack of preparation. Or two, I let them stew in my brain until the ideas pile one on the other and become so cramped and crowded that it's impossible to tell them apart. Either way, I get screwed. Catch-22, Joseph Heller's masterpiece, inspired me to the point of actually searching for a way to contact the author. Apparently, as I soon would learn, it's difficult to contact a man who's been dead for quite some time (unless, of course, you're willing to slap down 10 dollars to the nearest Whoopi Goldberg). While caught in the midst of my soon to be fruitless searches, I had the bright idea that Joseph Heller would spill the innermost secrets of his art, of his uncanny ability to mesh and mold comedy and tragedy into a flawless piece of literary structure. Not only would he lay his methods down on the table for me, but I'd take his teachings, with the most sincerely eager mindset, and begin immediately my masterpiece, my Catch-22. You all now know that such dreams have been made impossible by sudden cardiac arrest at the age of 76. I found out the hard way. As is usually associated with discovering things "the hard way", I plummeted into a state of mild depression. What else could I do? Certainly I couldn't celebrate the fact that the man was dead, and five years gone for that matter. I couldn't very well learn the secrets of his trade now. It then crossed my mind that I would attempt contacting his wife, but in fear of the worst, I didn't bother. I wasn't about to risk the chance of severe emotional trauma for a second time.

There wasn't much else left for me to do. At the beginning of my 463 page venture through the mind and material of Mr. Heller, I would never have assumed the impact that it would later have on my literary mind and ambitions. Don't get me wrong, I've always had the dream of writing one single masterpiece, a work for the ages, but Catch-22 has knocked that dream from the foothills to the summit, and I'm not quite sure how I got there. It's never truly occured to me that the possibilty of failure ever existed. I don't write for them. I write for me. If it happens to stimulate the minds of millions of people world-wide, then I'm just as satisfied. I trust in my own observations, in my own gatherings of people and events, and in my own ability enough to know that I can always buy every copy ever published of my book. At least I'd fool the New York Times.

It became clear to me that something just wasn't working. Earlier in the year, in a fit of sheer rage, I savagely bludgeoned my laptop to the point of no repair. It had come to be known that it required the odd slap now and then, but it was the ultimate shock to find the plasma screen cracked and twisted and rendered completely useless by one swift blow. I could of cried. But I continued my assault. That laptop was the nucleus of my writing ability. Like an extremity of my brain itself, my laptop and I would spend countless hours together as my fingers furiously pounded the keyboard, not quite sure where they were going. As we typed deep into the night, working tirelessly on the next great story, paper, or all of the above, my brain really hadn't the slightest of where it was taking us. It tended to be, more often than not, that my brain was kept in the dark until the final draft was produced and handed to the teacher. I let my fingers do the talking. My brain just gets in the way. Thankfully, my fingers tend to be the Magellan of my body, knowing a course and sticking to it. My brain could be compared to William Bligh, tossed about by the fears of mutiny, and led to ultimate capitulation at the hands of a superior force. That really doesn't bother me. I figure that if my brain was active in the writing process, my fingers would clog and overflow with nonstop information. If I only let my fingers, which happens to be the closest thing to the keyboard itself, do the work, then obviously the result will be much more natural. It seems that my natural tends to be more natural than other's naturality. Sadly enough, and I'm sure you're oozing with sympathy for my sad, pathetic life, my laptop has moved on, leaving my fingers desperate for the smooth hum of her innards, and the soft patter of her keys. Yet, those days are gone, and like Joseph Heller before them, I'm found sprawled in the dark, fingers first.

My depressing adventure of death and inspiration has led me to this point. I'd like to capitalize, and take the time to issue my deepest condolences, and my deepest thanks to Joseph Heller for dying on December 12, 1999. It not only proves to me that his works transcend his life, which is the ultimate compliment to a life of literary genius and utter brilliance, but it proves to me that Catch-22 immortilizes him. It was genuine enough to fool me into believing that he was still alive, and that I had any chance of learning even the slightest of his secrets. And it came to me. Catch-22 was his secret. Every philosophical thread in his body was poured into those pages and woven into one of the world's classic literary tapestries. His secret was his genius, so plainly laid before us in the most complex of terms. His secret was to live forever. Catch-22, and Joseph Heller, will live forever. I'm five years too late.