Look on the jacket back at the photo of the writer whose book you’re reading. That’s right, the image of the man or woman with artfully tousled hair, a somber expression in their eyes, leaning on a stack of books. The photos don’t show the lower extremities of the authors, or if they do, legs are covered in slacks or long skirts and tall boots.
And why is that? Because otherwise their knees would show. No worries about knobby or fleshy joints. It’s the danger of revealing the purple scrapes from falling down, the swollen bumps of landing hard on one’s patella, the bloody bruises endured while writing. Writers fall; banged up knees are proof.
We writers must be willing to fall if we’re going to achieve memorable writing. Like kids who learn to ride bikes, ice skate, or leap over hurdles, we tumble, we topple, we trip, we land on our butts and our knees. It’s the only way to learn to do challenging things. Child athletes and adult writers follow the same scenario. We get up and try it again. Fear of falling on our faces prevents mastering skills, so we try again, sometimes writing crap, and fall again, aiming for our personal best. Who knew that writing would be so dangerous? In what writing course did the instructor advise you to invest in Johnson & Johnson stock so you could recoup on your investment in band aids?
If you are so afraid of falling that you never venture beyond the safety of the formulae for “successful” writing, if you shy from trying strange plot twists to settle for the tried and true, if you are risk averse to including controversy in your stories, you may be too rigid to write your personal best. Your knees will be picture perfect but your story dry and predictable.
Consider the work of Andre Dubus III. My favorite is House of Sand and Fog. It’s about people who would never meet were it not for the house they all claim to own. Many readers agree there is no sympathetic main character because everyone is so flawed that it’s hard to admire anyone. Perhaps the only positive characters are the house itself, an innocent object at the center of wretched human behavior, or the young son, another innocent caught in a whirlwind that stokes the terrible end of the story. Beneath the surface battle for the house is a battle about damaged people caught up in social dysfunction that mirrors fractured contemporary desires and addictions. Read that synopsis again and you will see little ordinary element. Dubus took an enormous risk by ignoring the formula.
The story isn’t a thinly disguised autobiography, but I bet his sensitive portrayal of each injured character is drawn from his own cache of injuries. It’s likely he pulled from the depths of what has wounded him to be able to portray the wounded souls that inhabit the book. He was willing to be vulnerable, to tear out his heart and examine what hurts, in order to write convincingly about the vulnerabilities of others. If we can’t see ourselves committing the reckless acts of his characters, we can at least feel the pain of their awful choices. The result is an unforgettable book that generates deserved admiration among readers. It is the work of a master.
Creativity blooms from being vulnerable. An open heart, an open mind, an open hand reaching out to grasp what is strange and unknown, to welcome what hurts, humiliates, or makes us sob. A writer willing to fall. Do not fear a wound. Wounds heal. Tear open your heart, examine the pain – because that’s what writing is all about. Now turn out your gut – because that’s where the truth is. That which is rigid is stagnant. Vulnerability allows creativity.
All together now: All fall down. Then get up and write your best. Smile for the camera, your knees won’t show.
Painting: Caravaggio, The Conversion on the Way to Damascus, circa 1600, public domain
Good article. I always wondered why… I learn a lot from failure and tenacity. I don’t learn nearly as much when someone gives me an answer, what I want, with no price.
You prove the point, don’t you? I don’t even remember the answer when it’s given without cost to me.
Gee, I fall down a lot…
Might be a good thing, Andrew. Do you learn something valuable to help you get back up?
Mostly the lesson is, “That didn’t work, let’s try this way.”
The last part of your comment is key – to try again, another way. It’s no good to stay on the ground.
Shari, I still need some time to think about what you said in the article but there is a good possibility you have nailed me. Have I put myself in a box and not realized it? This could possibly be my main problem with my in-and-out muse.
I think perfectionists have a hard time allowing themselves to make errors – like it’s unforgivable when actually mistakes let you see another possibility. It’s the fear of being injured then never being able to move forward again.
This is a wonderful article. A great reminder of what an artist should be. Someone who’s not afraid to fall. Someone who takes risks and is courageous enough to try something new. Great post!😁👍💯
Thank you, Vashti. Do you find yourself easily able to recover from errors? (I hope so.)
What a wonderful post, Sharon. I think ‘getting back up’ after those falls is imperative. Sometimes perfectionists would rather do nothing at all than do it and fail – and this is a true waste of talent 😉
It’s painful to watch a writer flailing around with worry over commas or placement of words here or there instead of getting on with the writing itself. Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Dianne.
I’ve been working hard on recovering from perfectionism recently, and this is another clue that I’m on the right track. Thanks for a great post!
A terrific way to put it: recovering from perfectionism. I hope this helps your writing, Adan.