THE DOCTOR IS IN

THE COURAGE TO BE CORNY

In the battle of life it is not the critic who counts. Not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause. Who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. ~ Theodore Roosevelt

Last night, I saw 33 Variations with the friend who sent me the above quote. When we compared notes afterwards, we agreed that, as impressive as the cast, the set, and the musical direction were, what struck us both most forcefully was the courage of the writing.

“Courage” may seem an odd term to use in reference to a play that has been described as “soggy” and embarrassingly sentimental, but that was just it: the writer’s heart seemed to be exposed in every line. The play was suffused with naked passion—romantic passion; the passionate, frustrated love between mother and daughter; passion for music; and the passion of a fictional writer for her subject. It was completely corny and outdated, and it made me cry.

I don’t think I could have written such a play, even if I had the skill. My inner cynic is too powerful, which is another way of saying that I’m fearful of exposing my deepest feelings to possible ridicule. I’m much more comfortable toning myself down; censoring and editing for safety rather than illumination. I’ve been working on this issue for a long time, but this play made me think about how far I have yet to go.

As did one of my clients earlier this week, when she described an attack of uncontrollable crying she experienced after a writing class in which she felt out of place. “I’m in over my head,” she reported. She expressed feelings of fraudulence, of being an interloper trying to shove her way into a setting she was “obviously” unqualified for. (She had applied for a more basic class, since she had never studied writing formally before, but the credentials she listed on her application had shunted her into this advanced class against her will.)

I doubt that she really is unqualified for this class, but that isn’t the point. We discussed the courage it takes to present any work, but particularly a work in progress, to a group of virtual strangers, and how, for most of us, this vulnerability can bring up old, unresolved issues around acceptance and self-worth. We agreed that someone has to be the least accomplished person in a class. We went over her original reasons for deciding to take a writing class. “I’m a great editor for other people,” she said, “but not for myself. I need a reality check.”

A moment later she said, “I guess that’s what I’m getting.”

There would be a problem, she decided, if she was not able to benefit from criticism or instruction, but that is not the case. “I’m learning from the teacher and the other students.” She decided, as well, that if she was instructed to move to a lower-level class, “then I’ll have a data point.”

Letting go of ego in the service of art is a lifelong struggle for most of us. The rewards in terms of learning, growth, and authentic expression are well worth the effort, though. At least, that’s how it seems from this side of the fence—I’ll let you know if I ever manage to hop it.

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 PhD blog. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Susanne Dunlap]

Such a huge issue, Dr. Sue. I think it's easy to forget about that courage ingredient you're talking about. I think you may have identified something I've noticed in books I've read by very skillful, highly acclaimed writers that have disappointed me. A consciousness of craft and amazing technique, but not always being emotionally honest with the reader. A lot to think about!

[Paul Elwork]

Great column! I think this issue is an important hurdle in a writer's maturation. Skill and technique do seem hollow when the writer doesn't put him or herself out there somehow emotionally. It's a bit like a comedian who can't make fun of him or herself, and there is something cowardly and disappointing about it.

[katharine weber]

"No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader."
-- Robert Frost