Curls and Caffeine

Throughout my life, I have collected scars from people who have hurt me, either with words or actions that belittled, berated or betrayed me. These memories hung, as clear as crisp white shirts on a line, in front of me wherever I went. They were what I looked to when uncertain, and succeeded in keeping me from venturing into new ideas. Although I had known for years that my course of study would not (and did not) make me happy, I failed to see any sort of life outside of it. When I finally decided to discontinue my false life of forensic psychology, I resolved that I would explore all of my interests. I enrolled in writing, art history, evolution and studio art classes at the local community college. I envisioned myself asleep on park benches, my head afloat from my creative endeavors. In reality, I had never subjected any of my creative products to criticism; they were all hidden-poems scribbled over in the margin of my textbooks, or paintings on the backs of my bookshelves-so that when I opened myself up to explore these interests, I also made myself vulnerable to a new sort of pain.

I took part in an art class on mixed media, where we combined painting, collage and sculpture techniques. Each week the class tacked their pieces to the long corkboard and we sat facing them while the professor gave his impressions. The first class of this sort, my piece stood in stark contrast to all the others: mine told a story, one that had come to me recently in a dream and was the product of all my anxieties about my newfound life. The professor spent the entire critique explaining why he felt “there is nothing worthwhile or interesting about this piece.” Initially, I sat in shock, but then I remembered how many times I had let the words of others keep me in my place, and decided that I would fight against him with every piece of art I made.

I politely raised my hand and asked whether I had misunderstood the assignment, explaining that I had acted under the assumption that art was supposed to come from emotion. So that, any piece made honestly was made well. He replied, he didn’t care about my personal life–he just wanted something aesthetic. I knew that his words had the power to stunt my entire journey, but refused to give up. In the coming weeks, I beat canvases with wires dipped in paint and used my fingers to smooth the glue over my collages. I created images that had special meaning to me, and soon, he began to praise my work. He hung one of my pieces in the school and during the final review, admitted that he wished I would take more of his classes because he felt I was “on the brink of something big.”

Yoga teaches us about himsa or violence. This can come in many forms: physical, emotional or mental. We can experience himsa through being the victims of violence, the witnesses of violence, or by being the perpetrators. I have perpetrated the a great himsa against myself in the past by not having enough confidence. My art professor’s act of himsa came at an important time in my life, as I was no longer willing to give negativity power over my experience. By having my first piece rejected in such a disrespectful manner, I was able to face my greatest fear: not only did my professor not like my art, but he didn’t like me! In the past I would have let that destroy me, but instead I moved from there and said, “Well at least I don’t have to worry about impressing him anymore.” I was then free to make my pieces for myself.

I’ve been reading Laraine Herring’s Writing Begins With the Breath (Shambhala Publications*). It has a really interesting approach to creating an authentic writing voice. Herring uses yoga postures and an awareness of the breath to help the writer access the part of the self that is usually guarded by our inner critic. Her first chapter is on risk in writing. She explains that most writers guard themselves in their works, “The writer tries to play it safe, tries to couch what he’s doing in layers of deep, and often beautifully phrased crap. The reader spots this right away…” But that through surrendering ourselves to our experiences, we can become more honest and compelling writers.

I very rarely take any risk in my writing. My memoirs normally adopt a sarcastic tone in order to downplay the importance of events. In fiction, I have created numerous middle aged male narrators, whose voices are usually comedic but distant. In an effort to tap into a more authentic voice, I created a female narrator in her twenties who was struggling to write a story (very much like myself). The result is the short fiction piece All In.

Any writer that shares their work understands that most people will confuse the narrator with the author. This can be frustrating, especially when we’ve worked so hard to create an interesting and complex character. But we can’t deny the little bits of ourselves that we invest into our characters (and that is where risk comes in–the more you are willing to invest, the more alive your story becomes, but also the more susceptible you are to be judged). Most readers will understand that if the story was purely autobiographical, the writer would have labeled it a memoir (as a side note, what is wrong with people who keep releasing fabricated memoirs? Why don’t they just call it fiction and avoid all of this?).

This is not to say that we can only write narrators that share our same demographic information. We all know that there is something that resonates beyond age/sex/location in a story. But to get to that point, we have to admit that if the story we write is our story then we’ll be closer to the characters and the result will be more powerful.

My hope is that the parts of myself I invested into my narrator, Rea, will make her believable. I also hope that readers will understand that she has certain exaggerated traits that make her distinct from me. It is a relatively simple story about self-realization and the confusion of college. Sharing this story is the most important part of the process (although believe me, writing it was difficult enough) so I’d love to have some feedback.

Thanks!
Gina

*For anyone who isn’t familiar with Shambhala Publications, they’re the ones that published Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, another essential tool for supporting your creativity.