THE DOCTOR IS IN

ONE WRITER’S VOICE

 

When I was young, I entertained some theatrical aspirations. I performed in high school and college plays, and then enrolled in a professional school in Manhattan, where I studied acting, movement and voice.

The movement class was pretty much a washout; the most brilliant teachers in the world could not cure me of lifelong klutziness. But the acting and voice classes were revelatory.

After paying my dues in basic acting courses, I auditioned for and won a place in the most exciting class of my life. The teacher was the only person I have ever met about whom the term “creative genius” does not seem hyperbolic. He was short-tempered, garrulous and opinionated, but he was an artist to his bones. He pushed us mercilessly to  delve deeper into our characters, to chip away at artifice and easy facility to reveal the difficult, often frightening truth and beauty of our work, and of ourselves. I felt myself grow as an artist and a human being every time I watched him criticize a scene, and especially when he turned his attention to my work. I started auditing every one of his other classes that I could find time for. He was kind and encouraging toward me, and although our relationship did not extend beyond the confines of the school, it would also not be hyperbolic to say that what I felt for him was love.

My voice classes were life-changing in a different way. I did not form an attachment to a specific teacher, and I did not delve very deeply into my psyche in the service of the songs I studied--I never felt safe enough to do more than push the notes out. I arrived at my first class pretty much as I expected to remain, the owner of an excellent ear and a pleasant, though somewhat thin, mezzo-soprano voice with a limited range. I hoped to strengthen my voice and expand my range a bit; mostly, I hoped to overcome my fear of singing solo in public. Because of the abovementioned klutziness, I had never had a lead role in a musical; instead, I was often relegated to the back row of the chorus, or even behind a scrim to fortify the onstage singing. Here in NYC, though, where nobody knew me, I would have to audition for such parts, and the prospect terrified me.

One teacher had different ideas about my goals. Despite my protestations, he insisted that I was not a mezzo-soprano; I was a true soprano who was too lazy or inhibited to stretch myself. He also believed that my voice was bigger and richer than the one he was hearing. The more he pushed me, the more deeply I withdrew into my fears, until my voice practically vanished into nothing. We developed an intense, though somewhat masked, dislike for each other.

Then, one evening, I arrived late and breathless for class—I had had to deal with a work crisis—just in time for my performance slot. I was to sing “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” from Jesus Christ, Superstar, a song I had little affinity or admiration for, but which I had been assigned for technical reasons. I did not have time to get nervous or to think about how I could not possibly hit that high E. I just ran in, slapped the music on the piano rack, and opened my mouth—and my self. Suddenly, the room was silent, except for a large, generous, passionate voice that I slowly recognized as my own. By the time I finished, I had tears streaming down my face, and several other students, who had witnessed my struggles over the months, were crying as well.

I did not maintain that level of openness in my voice classes, but I never returned to my closed-off stance, either. And again, I felt transformed by this experience of being pushed, and unwillingly pushing myself, past where I thought I was capable of going.

My acting career followed a similar trajectory to my writing career—that is, some nice exposure, but practically no money. And unlike writing, acting can’t be squeezed in between other commitments; an actor needs to conform to rigid rehearsal and performance schedules. Because I entertained other ambitions, such as eating regularly and starting a family eventually, I made the decision that I needed a backup, “real” career, and applied to graduate school.

For a while I kept up both lives, but eventually the pressure of papers and clinical placements became too much, and I took a leave from acting school, always intending to return. However, while I was still in graduate school, Herbert, my teacher, died. This should not have been a shock—he was 81 with a pacemaker. But I was still young enough to harbor the illusion that there was enough time to do anything that needed to be done, including spend more precious time with a beloved teacher.

I wish I had returned to school then, to take part in the group grieving rituals that his passing engendered. But I did not know how to handle my strong feelings, especially in an environment that was alien to the emotionally expressive one of the acting school. I had a hard time explaining to my new classmates, or to myself, the depth of my feeling of loss, and it embarrassed me. And so I sealed it off, and carried on.

That was nineteen years ago. For eighteen years, I avoided the block on which the school is located. When forced to walk there on rare occasions, I was flooded with sadness that, I felt, was inappropriate and embarrassing. I never went back to acting, and although I continued to sing on occasion, my voice had returned to its unexceptional, pleasant, restricted state, and I felt increasingly that my previous openness had been an illusion.

Over the past year, though, as recorded here, I have been systematically working to overcome long-held fears. Coincidentally (or not, if you believe in synchronicity), I have found myself in the the neighborhood of my old school, often once or twice a week, and the forced exposure has desensitized me to a degree. And as I have learned to take more risks, my voice has begun to open up again.

And so, last weekend, I dithered until the last possible moment, traveled to the school, wandered around the block a few times giving myself pep talks, then walked in and registered for a voice class. I’m not ready to go back to acting, but maybe this will be the first step. Who knows.

What does this have to do with writing? Just this: I have been thinking about all of this in Jungian terms, as a hero’s journey.   I have embarked, in other words, on a sometimes harrowing quest not entirely of my own devising, to face down certain demons with the goal of transformation. This is the journey my clients engage in when they return, week after week, to confront painful, sometimes traumatic, experiences and parts of themselves that they might prefer to keep hidden. And it is the journey traveled by serious writers, as they stare down the blank page or computer screen, pushing themselves, as I was pushed, to chip away at artifice and easy facility to reveal truth and beauty.

These journeys are not heroic in the sense that vaccinating children in Congo or rescuing people from burning buildings is heroic. They are of value all the same, and not only to the practitioner. Poets through the ages have reminded us that fear is the antithesis of, and enemy to, love. The more we strive to eliminate fear, the more room there is for love—not the easy, kittens-and-balloons love, but the deep, difficult, scary love that allows us to stick with a troubled child or a friend or lover in crisis; to express deeply held, unpopular convictions; and, yes, to risk our lives in the service of others. Heroism is a process, not a fixed trait; and as Jung reminds us, the true hero is not fearless; rather, [s]he moves forward in spite of fear.

In that spirit, on Monday at 5:30, I will take a baby step forward in spite of fear, in the hope of reclaiming another piece of my voice and opening up a bit more to love. Please wish me luck--and courage.

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. Her book,  Getting Unstuck Without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007) is now available in bookstores. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Richard]

I wish you lots of luck. Courage you already have.

[Susan M]

Wow, Dr. Sue. I second Richard's sentiments. But I certainly wish I could hear that voice.

[Iris Black]

I think it's great that you are preparing yourself to reclaim an activity that you enjoyed. Good luck, and, as mentioned earlier, you already have the courage you need!

Iris
http://irisblack-author.blogspot.com

[Leslie]

Excellent post. Inspiring, and also scary to contemplate one's (okay, my) fears as you suggest. Thank you for sharing your experiences...and good luck!!

[katharine weber]

Wow. You are an inspiration, Sue.

[M.J. Rose]

Yes, good luck - I too would love to hear your voice!

[Olivia]

Thank you for your post! I am on my own writing journey at the moment - and followed the link to the stages of the hero journey, which has opened up new doors for me, including the work of Joseph Campbell. I like your link as well to fear vs love - I had considered it before in terms of fear vs faith...
http://thefiver.wordpress.com/2009/01/18/22-fear-vs-faith/