Realizations of a baby writer

I almost tweeted something angry and hurt about high school teachers today. Not about teachers in general mind you, but something about my personal experience however many years ago (many,) but granted in the twitter formula it would have come off as an attack on the profession which isn’t really the hill I want to die on.

So instead I’ll expand on it here. I guess I had some good teachers, but maybe I was never very receptive to that life-changing teacher-student relationship. There’s nothing like a bad teacher however to really impact your life, especially at a young age.

Mr. B, in retrospect (and even at the present time, if we were honest) was a pretty miserable guy. He didn’t exude happiness. His style of teaching was kind of complain-ey. Humorous at times, but if we’re looking at it objectively by his lot in life, frankly bitter. Probably inappropriately so.

I genuinely don’t know what you’re supposed to expect from an essay from a 15 or 16 year old. I could barely hold a single thought long enough in my head to express my current emotional state, yet I was supposed to put together a thesis that would withstand the scrutiny of a full grown man, one with a job, one who had presumably lost his virginity, perhaps had the death of a close family member, seen 2001: a space odyssey in the cinemas?

I don’t really remember what he did to me. He wasn’t encouraging, is that an educational sin? No, but I do believe he was actively discouraging. I think I may not have been the only one, but alas, when we are young, we sometimes categorically believe we are the only one, and that pain cuts deep.

So here I am, pushing middle-age and a “baby” writer. Finally putting finger to clavier with enough regularity that its not a once in a blue moon fluke but a habit, a nascent part of my creative identity.

All this to say it’s no thanks to him. There are those who did little to encourage me, who ignored my attempts to be seen, but discouragement truly is a kick in the shins, it hobbles you enough to stay on the sidelines when you could at least give a left-middle-back a try which is a failed metaphor but we’ll end the sentence here.

Luckily, creativity is creativity. I won’t go on about my schoolings and “career” (oh come on, you have a career) in acting but at least I’ve been able to build on something there. I consider myself a professional actor, (no quotations on professional there I see?) and in that respect also a professional creative.

So here’s my realization. Did I say realizations? It might just be the one so far.

It’s kind of the same as in acting: You can’t be too close to your personal experiences, trauma and story to really have your imaginative powers draw from it.

In other words, well, you can, if that’s your thing, but in my experience its a well that will run dry. “Emotional memory” is a tool that acting teachers expound on, but generally its agreed upon that delving into your trauma and tying it too closely to your character’s trauma is a fools errand, or at least an unsustainable practice. If the memory floats up, as you’re creativily exploring the fictional world of your character, than fine, that’s a kind of an adjustable leash if you will, one that has freedom to come and go, but lassoing the two together is a recipe for exhaustion, maybe even psychological harm.

This is my realization of course. My truth. But what’s interesting is that it also relates to my writing of the audioseries I’m currently working on.

There needs to be distance. There needs to be fantasy. One step too close to the truth, to the personal, and there’s a part of me that runs for the hills, that refuses to play, that doesn’t like the experience.

But, as I’m learning, if I create that safe barrier, allowing the personal to “float up” without expecting it or needing it to, then the parts that want, or can be expressed will volunteer themselves, almost like little gifts. This happens in acting too. When it happens its magical. It can be the most painful memory and it offers itself for a brief moment as a kind of offering, a kind of sacrifice, a kind of fuel to be incinerated on the flames of creative energy.

So that’s all I really wanted to tweet, I guess, which is a good thing I didn’t, because any criticism, unlike my teacher’s would have been more than fair.