Method: Writing-as-action
Contextualizing vulnerability so that it has the chance to grow.
Art is the practice of telling the truth that is socially unacceptable in ways that can be widely enjoyed.
A core tenet of my writing practice is to write about direct experiences I have had in the world, in ways that both might affect the dynamics I have been in contact with and acknowledges the root of the inspiration. In this way I aim to write in a way that expresses vulnerability, rather than obscures the source of inspiration for writing.
Writing is a practice in saying the thing that you’re too scared to say.
I have noticed through practicing owning my perceptions and interpretations of other people, my diagnoses of their problems as though they were my own, that I have had a tendency to project my experiences onto other people. I find the best practice when I feel the need to speak into someone else’s experience, is to own my perceptions and interpretations as mine — as not coming from them, the expert on their own experience. In this vulnerability of owning my perceptions, I aim to practice humility: I am willing to be wrong. I also aim to act in good faith — I am being honest about my agenda, my desire to change you, to interpret you, and to understand you in ways that make sense with my experience.
These are normal human responses, and they do not need to be shamed. However, if they are veiled, you can find yourself influencing, or attempting to influence people in covert ways. In expressing my perceptions, interpretations and advice, I try to do so not like I am throwing a stone at someone (although there is a time and place for that). But like I am pulling a stone out of my bag and asking them to look at it with me, to see if it might be similar to a stone in their bag, or what the differences might be. I imagine us sitting next to each other, examining our honest thoughts, perceptions and feelings together with openness and curiosity.
Often, I find that the way I was interpreting another person is related to deep patterns I have observed in my life: my relationships with my parents, past or present friendships, conflicts, relationships with siblings, co-workers, bosses and with systems of injustice. Expressing this as well helps me not to simply be painting my own experience onto everyone else. When I say, “Oh, that brings up a strong emotion in me which I see is also related to my experience with my dad,” I can give the person the opportunity to either relate to that experience, or to say, “oh, this has nothing to do with that and is a completely different dynamic.” Through this process, I learn. I also try not to unduly burden people with my interpretations of their actions as they relate to my own. I try to be sparing in sharing those. There is, of course, a time to listen and let someone else’s experience speak for itself. At the same time, relating experiences to each other is part of what builds relationships, as is sharing stories from our lives. So long as we’re not talking over each other and both sides are enjoying the conversation, this is a great way to learn — to acknowledge our own preconceptions and be open and willing to move beyond them.
This is how I aim to approach writing. Everything, everything, I write is directly inspired by my direct experience with the world. When I write as though I have found some “answer” removed from my experiential reality, I think it can create a false sense of separateness — an idea that anything I write is not in direct relation to my life experience and the world around me. This is why I think all writing, all philosophy should be examined in the context of the life of the person who wrote it. For example, Sigmund Freud’s ideas about psychology would be cast into severe doubt if, say, his brother had killed his father and married his mom. I might think then that his idea of the Oedipus Complex could just be a projection of his own experience. Likewise, I am more prone to listen to moral advice from people who died standing up for the oppressed than televangelists, just as I am more likely to listen to professional athletes on achieving success than professional self help writers who haven’t ever accomplished anything other than getting people to buy their books.
There is a tendency — I learned when I was thinking about becoming a therapist — to go out and try to fix everyone else’s problems instead of fixing our own. It’s quite common in the mental health field and something to deeply search for inside oneself if one considers going into the field. I read a book once by a therapist who couldn’t find love, so she became a relationship therapist and instead helped everyone else to find it. This was likely a clever defense mechanism to avoid confronting her own issue in meaningful ways — as well as a very valid unawareness at how to approach it or what was stopping her. Finally, in her 40’s or so, she went to war with her own inability to find the love she wanted. The result, after some time, was the book, Calling in “The One,” on attracting and accepting the love of your life. In addition, of course, she found at least one love of her life.
Due to this tendency to write about issues as though they were external to my life instead of dealing with the issues in my life, I like to take accountability for the way my writing directly relates to my life. The aim is to create writing that is immediately applicable to the lives of others, and I think creating content that is honestly related to my own life in light of the social and material context of my life is the best way to do this. You can decide if it’s something that applies to your life or not. It’s not a top 10 article disconnected from any lived experience on the things you need to do to root out toxicity from your life, or whatever. It’s, “this is what has worked for me, and these are the blocks I’m trying to work through.” Doing so, I intend to use my writing as a tool to actively deal with the issues in my life.
As far as vulnerability goes, the more fully we express it, the more open-heartedly we charge into uncharted waters, the more beautiful the result.
Recently I was exposed to the practice of going into nature alone (through an Illuman men’s retreat) and asking it a question (through a friend I met there). I asked what I was to do — I had been wondering about how to express the things in my brain and in my heart. How much was too much, how much at a time, what to express and what not to. I looked over and I saw a tree. It said, “straight to the top.” It’s trunk points directly, upwards. The tree is not ambivalent. It grows decidedly in the vertical direction. To the top I went.
What I noticed looking at the trees, is the way they express their vulnerability — without question or hesitation. You see, the tree has a deep and existential need for light, which it promptly creates the highest pedastal possible for and displays in begging foliage: leaves. Her leaves cascade out in every direction, his branches thrusting them out, ever higher, ever more extended into the furthest it can reach. Light, it says, I need light! And this need is a celebration, and in that celebration is a beauty. After some much needed time in nature, I came back with my answer.
Go straight to the top — share it all.
I wanna be an engine
Running wide open
Running wide open
Till I can’t run no more
- Coma Cinema, Running Wide Open
