THE DOCTOR IS IN

SICK OF THOSE VOICE METAPHORS YET?

I was set for last week’s voice class. I had prepared a new song, and I’d practiced it until I was note-perfect. I repeated the vocal and physical exercises we do in class, which I’ve found useful in relaxing and opening my voice, and I sipped soothing herbal tea all afternoon to keep my throat clear.

As I walked to school from the subway, a dear friend called. We had a brief, somewhat unsettling conversation. There had been minor strain between us lately—nothing dramatic; just a series of possible misunderstandings that were quickly glossed over. My feelings had been hurt a few times, but the slights were so subtle they could have been my imagination. I would have felt petty making an issue out of them. I was being hypersensitive, and I needed to get over myself. We ended the call with friendly chitchat, and I proceeded to class—where I screwed up in every possible way.

First, I kept blanking out on the exercises. I had trouble focusing on the instructions, and seemed to be always half a step behind the rest of the class. I absentmindedly asked a question just as a classmate had begun to present her song. I made a comment about another classmate’s singing that was meant to be both supportive and funny, and that came out sounding snide—and spent the next 15 minutes trying to make up for it in a way that was unnecessary and probably embarrassing.

When it was my turn to sing, I raced ahead of the accompanist, stomping on every nuance of the music and lyrics. Because I was the last singer, and we were out of time, the teacher reserved comment, instructing me to take the first slot next week and pick up from there. I raced out of the classroom, as I had raced through the entire evening, and back to the subway, where I fell into a funk.

The next day, I talked to my friend again. He made a casual comment that, I felt, carried a hint of condescension. I felt my stomach clench. But I didn’t want to make a fuss. I started to respond in a friendly, reasonable way.

And then Ramzxyr!!!, the demon that has lurked behind my bland exterior since I played with a Ouija board in 1969 took over, as it does once every ten years. I am not even sure what it said, other than breaking at least 100%, possibly more, of the rules of constructive discourse. “You always make me feel like an idiot” and “I don’t even know why I’m talking about this—you obviously don’t care about our friendship” were two of Ramzxyr!!!’s more helpful observations. Needless to say, the dialogue grew less and less sensible, and relied increasingly on yelling and interrupting.

We continued in this vein for the rest of the week and through the weekend. Emails flew—the kind that explode your head because the interlarded responses become so dense that the writers have to resort to exotic colors and typefaces to distinguish new grievances from the ones they posted seventeen exchanges ago. By Monday, I was a dishrag. I was in danger of missing a deadline—a rare occurrence for me—and I felt completely unprepared for a presentation I was scheduled to give the next day. I considered skipping voice class. There were so many more constructive uses for that time. Besides, I had barely practiced my song all week; my voice was hoarse from arguing; and every muscle ached because my sleep had been wrecked.

But I knew what would happen if I stayed home. Ramzxyr!!!, who works internally as well, would intensify my bad feelings about messing up. I would find another excuse not to attend next week, and eventually the class would become radioactive, and I’d stop singing again. So I slogged in.

And it was fine. I was not rested, happy or particularly well prepared, but I was present. I was present for the warm-ups, and when it came time to sing I was able to listen to the pianist, listen to the words and music, and listen to my inner promptings to sing in tune, on time, and with feeling. I was back in my body, back in the room. The teacher commented on what a difference a week of practice makes.

I carry on an intermittent, but always stimulating e-discussion about the nature and expressions of creativity with the playwright and lyricist Randy Moomaw, a friend since college days. Recently, he wrote the following:

Someone I've connected with who is a voice teacher in the NY area shared the following perspective.

It made me think back to my acting coach from the way-back years. Sal would say that as adults we've lost the ability to "make believe" and had put on so many layers of defenses in the process, many as coping tools, but far too many as b.s. It blocked our creativity and ability to find an authentic voice. He added that communication often occurred layer to layer or mask to mask to protect "the core" or our vulnerability.

Anyway, Deborah "Zuke" Smith shared the following:

"The key to finding your voice is not to look for it.  It is there but we tend to keep pushing it down or holding it back while thinking, I can’t let this out.  I have my students act out a lot of things they did when they were about three or four years of age.  The older the student, the more layers of suggestibility that prevent them from letting go.  I gently peel back those layers to reveal the gem that’s in everyone."

  I am not proud of my failure to keep my demon on its leash. The operative adverb in Zuke’s description of her process is “gently.” But several correspondents have commented that these posts are becoming more personal and authentic lately. Could it be the uneven and laborious process of uncovering my voice?

Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Susan M]

Sue,

First, no. I, for one, am not sick of the voice metaphors. In fact, as I was falling asleep last night (this is the honest truth), I wondered whether you might write about the voice lessons again, and I hoped that your would. It is a rich, fruitful metaphor, and you have not come anywhere near close to exhausting it, especially because of the deeply honest way you are going about it. So thank you. That whole description of the swept-under conflict with the friend and its demonic surfacing . . . wow. Thanks for that.

[Katrina Stonoff]

Ditto what Susan said (well, except for part about falling asleep last night).

And in addition, I appreciate the example you are to us, courageously following creative pursuits, especially scary, challenging ones. And doubly so for taking the risk to share the experience.

I hope you are able to work things out with your friend.