On writing, the wound, angst and having something to say
June 18, 2021
I found your thoughts on mental and emotion health and writing quite interesting.
While exploring the nature of visual arts in my 20’s at college, then art school, and especially in my desire to make a shift from “commercial art” which was a path I originally thought to follow, to that of “fine art”, I wondered if I had enough to say. My own life experiences seemed shallow and unimportant, having grown up in a reasonably affluent mostly white neighborhood. As with the great sufferers such as Van Gogh, the living artists that I knew of that were doing the work that was getting the most attention at the time, were the ones from the wrong side of the tracks, mostly.
Despite a childhood rife with depression and intense loneliness, as a young artist I felt I didn’t have much worthwhile to say. As a youth, a good day might look like an afternoon torrential downpour under lead skies. I would walk the streets alone and feel the cold sting of the rain on my back through my drenched t- shirt, lifting my face to the sky to let the tears pour out of me unchecked and un- noticed by anyone else. I could make public that which was going on inside me without shame.
I would of course chastise myself afterwards for indulging in my personal emotional cesspit, as I came from a privileged background and had no good reason to mourn. Despite that my parents had separated, and that as a result my now single mother could barely hang on to the family home as we had become the poorest family in the neighborhood, I didn’t feel worthy of my emotional distress. I couldn’t own it. It was too pitiful.
One of my contemporaries at art school, Douglas Copeland, who happened to be closely associated with the rising stars who became known as “The Young Romantics” – also mostly contemporaries of mine at art school,- demonstrated that fine art did not have to be filled with angst and emotional expression. Douglas was a successful visual artist before he became an acclaimed writer. And he grew up in an affluent neighborhood in West Vancouver. He had something to say and found a way to express himself that people found a connection with. The connection is what counts, not the angst.
Visual art, like writing, does not have to be born of angst and suffering. As you mentioned, pain helps us grow, but in order to grow we need an outlet to bleed off some of the pain. I know that pain is bigger than I am, and it is too much to constantly contain within myself. When contained it can eat me alive. We all have different coping mechanisms to help bleed off the pain that life inevitably brings. Some run. Some draw. Some write. Some fight or drink. All indulgences that shift the focus of the pain away from the pain for a little while, or longer. I know that without a coping mechanism , I become a dam of emotional floodwaters with the pressure of life ever increasing behind the jam that is making the dam.
By bleeding off some of the pressure I can survive a little longer. If I can figure out how to bust the dam entirely, without getting swept away, I can find equilibrium.
As an adult I learned that each of us, - everyone - has an emotional wound. As I am not a trained writer, I don’t know if this concept is spoken of in these terms. I have been in rooms with strangers during intense personal development work and learned of some of the tragedies that were dubbed childhood for some of these people. One woman had an older brother who held drinking parties when their parents were away and raped her in front of his friends before inviting them to have her too. Another worshipped his father who owned a large farm with many employees. One day, at day’s end, the young lad came home to the farm from school to meet his father in the fields who was having a beer with the employees. His father told the young boy to drive the farm truck over, and laughed uproariously at the boy’s ragged attempts to drive the truck. The boy’s pride was crushed and he bears this wound still, 60 years later.
The contrast in these two stories is what counts, - it illustrates that we all have our wound, that we have all suffered great emotional pain. Many would say that the fear and humiliation of the rape is far more serious than that of the embarrassed youth, and put on a scale of “seriousness” most would agree, however the point is that the pain was just as real and intense for each of them, in their own situation. What is your wound? What thing, no matter how trivial you think someone else might think it, happened to you as a child or a young person that you still carry to this day? Your wound, no matter how serious or trivial by someone else’s standards, has been transformative in your own development as a person and how you experience your world now.
Life brings with it a constant barrage of challenges. Some of the challenges bring frustration while others bring joy. And other emotions too…. We as adults have learned to address and “deal with” most of these regular events or we just would not be able to cope. I have found that the best antidote to the constant barrage of challenges, other than the required buckling down and addressing them, is to find some expression for them. The ritual of drawing, writing, talking. The constant challenges are the twigs and sticks, the flotsam of my life that gets tangled at the tickle in my river of life, and if not moved along will jam and pressure will build…. I find that if I am constantly processing, - moving thoughts, emotions, ideas through, that stale ones do not build up so much, interesting ideas come more freely and the stream of my consciousness flows unabated.
I find it interesting to write from a point of angst and emotional stress but who wants to deliberately put themselves in an unhealthy emotional state in order to try and create gripping content? We all have new challenges all the time, and we all have our own wound which is emotional distress with history. Writing from a point of vulnerability can perhaps draw some of the reader’s own emotions into the rainy street without shame, but can the mundane also be interesting? Comedians make their living by drawing focus to the daily mundane and showing a truth about that thing that we never saw quite that way before. I often find this shift in focus on a common frustration, for example, intensely funny. The log jam opens, and some of life’s pressure seeps away. Showcasing the mundane can illustrate how absurd life can be and provide a new insight about what is important in life. And that is a pretty good thing.
So, do I write during times of emotional distress to harness that creativity in a positive way? Absolutely, even if I never share it, as it is part of the process of bloodletting and understanding. Do I write about the mundane, the thought provoking and everything in between? Why yes, why wouldn’t you? Do I write about these things as often as I should? Of course not! But I am working on it!
I sometimes write from a place of psychological turmoil. The stories tend to end with my [recurring]character staring into the abyss. I resolved last Christmas that he’s going to have to cheer up but, so far, I haven’t given him much to work with. But, so far, it hasn’t been the abyss. Baby steps.
It seems to go unmentioned amidst the sturm and drang that writing can be fun, pleasurable. A bon mot, a nice turn of phrase, an unexpected, unplanned plot twist. I had a story in which a fellow re-connected with a former girlfriend in order to apologize for something that he had done in the past when they were together. Unexpectedly (to both the character and to me) she replied, “Is that it? Isn’t there something else?” And my character (and I) didn’t have an answer, but we knew that whatever he said would be wrong. Still chuffed how that turned out.
On writing, the wound, angst and having something to say
June 18, 2021
I found your thoughts on mental and emotion health and writing quite interesting.
While exploring the nature of visual arts in my 20’s at college, then art school, and especially in my desire to make a shift from “commercial art” which was a path I originally thought to follow, to that of “fine art”, I wondered if I had enough to say. My own life experiences seemed shallow and unimportant, having grown up in a reasonably affluent mostly white neighborhood. As with the great sufferers such as Van Gogh, the living artists that I knew of that were doing the work that was getting the most attention at the time, were the ones from the wrong side of the tracks, mostly.
Despite a childhood rife with depression and intense loneliness, as a young artist I felt I didn’t have much worthwhile to say. As a youth, a good day might look like an afternoon torrential downpour under lead skies. I would walk the streets alone and feel the cold sting of the rain on my back through my drenched t- shirt, lifting my face to the sky to let the tears pour out of me unchecked and un- noticed by anyone else. I could make public that which was going on inside me without shame.
I would of course chastise myself afterwards for indulging in my personal emotional cesspit, as I came from a privileged background and had no good reason to mourn. Despite that my parents had separated, and that as a result my now single mother could barely hang on to the family home as we had become the poorest family in the neighborhood, I didn’t feel worthy of my emotional distress. I couldn’t own it. It was too pitiful.
One of my contemporaries at art school, Douglas Copeland, who happened to be closely associated with the rising stars who became known as “The Young Romantics” – also mostly contemporaries of mine at art school,- demonstrated that fine art did not have to be filled with angst and emotional expression. Douglas was a successful visual artist before he became an acclaimed writer. And he grew up in an affluent neighborhood in West Vancouver. He had something to say and found a way to express himself that people found a connection with. The connection is what counts, not the angst.
Visual art, like writing, does not have to be born of angst and suffering. As you mentioned, pain helps us grow, but in order to grow we need an outlet to bleed off some of the pain. I know that pain is bigger than I am, and it is too much to constantly contain within myself. When contained it can eat me alive. We all have different coping mechanisms to help bleed off the pain that life inevitably brings. Some run. Some draw. Some write. Some fight or drink. All indulgences that shift the focus of the pain away from the pain for a little while, or longer. I know that without a coping mechanism , I become a dam of emotional floodwaters with the pressure of life ever increasing behind the jam that is making the dam.
By bleeding off some of the pressure I can survive a little longer. If I can figure out how to bust the dam entirely, without getting swept away, I can find equilibrium.
As an adult I learned that each of us, - everyone - has an emotional wound. As I am not a trained writer, I don’t know if this concept is spoken of in these terms. I have been in rooms with strangers during intense personal development work and learned of some of the tragedies that were dubbed childhood for some of these people. One woman had an older brother who held drinking parties when their parents were away and raped her in front of his friends before inviting them to have her too. Another worshipped his father who owned a large farm with many employees. One day, at day’s end, the young lad came home to the farm from school to meet his father in the fields who was having a beer with the employees. His father told the young boy to drive the farm truck over, and laughed uproariously at the boy’s ragged attempts to drive the truck. The boy’s pride was crushed and he bears this wound still, 60 years later.
The contrast in these two stories is what counts, - it illustrates that we all have our wound, that we have all suffered great emotional pain. Many would say that the fear and humiliation of the rape is far more serious than that of the embarrassed youth, and put on a scale of “seriousness” most would agree, however the point is that the pain was just as real and intense for each of them, in their own situation. What is your wound? What thing, no matter how trivial you think someone else might think it, happened to you as a child or a young person that you still carry to this day? Your wound, no matter how serious or trivial by someone else’s standards, has been transformative in your own development as a person and how you experience your world now.
Life brings with it a constant barrage of challenges. Some of the challenges bring frustration while others bring joy. And other emotions too…. We as adults have learned to address and “deal with” most of these regular events or we just would not be able to cope. I have found that the best antidote to the constant barrage of challenges, other than the required buckling down and addressing them, is to find some expression for them. The ritual of drawing, writing, talking. The constant challenges are the twigs and sticks, the flotsam of my life that gets tangled at the tickle in my river of life, and if not moved along will jam and pressure will build…. I find that if I am constantly processing, - moving thoughts, emotions, ideas through, that stale ones do not build up so much, interesting ideas come more freely and the stream of my consciousness flows unabated.
I find it interesting to write from a point of angst and emotional stress but who wants to deliberately put themselves in an unhealthy emotional state in order to try and create gripping content? We all have new challenges all the time, and we all have our own wound which is emotional distress with history. Writing from a point of vulnerability can perhaps draw some of the reader’s own emotions into the rainy street without shame, but can the mundane also be interesting? Comedians make their living by drawing focus to the daily mundane and showing a truth about that thing that we never saw quite that way before. I often find this shift in focus on a common frustration, for example, intensely funny. The log jam opens, and some of life’s pressure seeps away. Showcasing the mundane can illustrate how absurd life can be and provide a new insight about what is important in life. And that is a pretty good thing.
So, do I write during times of emotional distress to harness that creativity in a positive way? Absolutely, even if I never share it, as it is part of the process of bloodletting and understanding. Do I write about the mundane, the thought provoking and everything in between? Why yes, why wouldn’t you? Do I write about these things as often as I should? Of course not! But I am working on it!
I sometimes write from a place of psychological turmoil. The stories tend to end with my [recurring]character staring into the abyss. I resolved last Christmas that he’s going to have to cheer up but, so far, I haven’t given him much to work with. But, so far, it hasn’t been the abyss. Baby steps.
It seems to go unmentioned amidst the sturm and drang that writing can be fun, pleasurable. A bon mot, a nice turn of phrase, an unexpected, unplanned plot twist. I had a story in which a fellow re-connected with a former girlfriend in order to apologize for something that he had done in the past when they were together. Unexpectedly (to both the character and to me) she replied, “Is that it? Isn’t there something else?” And my character (and I) didn’t have an answer, but we knew that whatever he said would be wrong. Still chuffed how that turned out.
“After all, a human living life deeply and broadly and searchingly (and not in fear of adverbs)…” LOL