Emotional Catharsis in Writing
The high of accomplishment of finishing a piece is well known. But in addition to that old standard, there is another high that writers can chase: achieving emotional catharsis in art.
Catharsis has the Greek word Catharos in it, the same root as the verb Catharizo.
It means to cleanse.
OK. Now that I’ve got the father character from My Big Fat Greek Wedding
proclaiming that to you in heavily accented English in your head, let me hit you with this:
Finding catharsis is one of the keys to writing authentically.
In addition to the high of finishing a large piece, or burning the midnight oil to write furiously into the night, experiencing Catharsis is one of my favorite things as both a reader of books, a watcher of movies and a writer. It’s right up there for me with reading a novel and the title and main theme of the novel are included in poignant dialogue three quarters of the way through the book. (This used to be one of my absolute favorite parts of reading novels, by the way. I’d relish that moment. It was the chocolate old-fashioned doughnut experience of reading with the cherry on top.) Akin to this aha moment of literature, is finding emotional catharsis. Luckily for us writers, we get to find it a few times. Once as we learn to read and watch movies and a second time as we create it for ourselves and maybe even a third when an audience is moved by our words. But, finding Catharsis in work is not so easy.
In Aristotle’s Poetics, a lengthy and ancient treatise that draws out among other things the concept of the 5-act dramatic structure of plays, emotional catharsis comes to the audience after the audience experiences tragedy.
After watching a tragedy, when everybody dies in the end, as we cry, we feel cleansed. Think about the end of Romeo and Juliet. This kind of art lets us feel the feelings. As the theory goes, after a good cry, we feel better. We feel better because we have directed “our own anxieties outward and, through sympathetic identification with the tragic protagonist, [have purged] them” (Merriam Webster Dictionary).
A lot of Aristotle’s Poetics talks about tragedy, but today, modern writers and thinkers have translated it into talking about drama in general.
Not everything you write or read needs to be emotionally cathartic, but, if we’re going to be real, there is a reason why we seek out great works of literature besides being able to impress people at dinner parties. But really, impressing people these days is more about taking a usable selfie to prove you were at a dinner party for all your friends on social media than it is about the dinner, the conversation or the party-unless it’s a pic of the food, then yummo.
Compelling characters come from somewhere. The stardust that makes them is within your reach and at your fingertips. Give your vulnerabilities to them. Give them your fears. Give them your quarter-life and mid-life crises. Give them the same secret fears and desires that lurk in the recesses of your own heart. Make them complex, searching, yearning individuals that we all are. How do we do this? By having an emotional catharsis ourselves. By facing ourselves. All of us. By staring ourselves down in the mirror warts and all.
Sometimes, as we create-as we write the words and embroider the feelings into a character, or a voice, a poem, a personal essay, a ranting monologue, or kickass scene we also get it out. Catharsis in art comes from vulnerability. It’s the ability to be vulnerable in art requires a kind of humility. It actually takes a lot of strength to be humble.
Vulnerability is what makes us human and it is what draws readers and writers to each other across time and space. The best literature and stories are universal. It doesn’t matter what language, time period, gender or ethnicity the character is born into, if the voice is authentic, and the characters are interesting, the story compelling, people will identify with it regardless of where they are coming from.
In fact, pair a little vulnerability with toughness and you’ve got potential for a great complex character. Ironically, in society, in order to function, we must cultivate a kind of toughness, an outer shell in order to function. We’re not supposed to let things bother us. But did you ever know a really tough person? We’re talking tough as nails. Who was the toughest person you knew? Was it the little grandma in the town you grew up in, who was 5'2" and spindly, who could inspire fear in kids with a look in her eye, who once stopped a tank of invading soldiers by protesting outside while brandishing a rolling pin.
Or did you ever know a really tough guy? We’re talking tough. Looks like he could be a long lost member of the Hells Angels? The kind of guy who, if you saw him walking down the street, you’d consider crossing to the other side? Now pair that badass dude with a tender-hearted love for kitties and puppies and you have got yourself an interesting character. People are complex. Emotions are complex.
Sometimes in the process of finding your voice, you may feel emotional. Where were you all these years, you might ask? Or where have you been? Or you might say, thank goodness I’ve got my groove back—or whatever. But as artists, this emotional catharsis is a pinprick that we must feel in order to give it to the work, and vicariously give it to the reader. It’s the thing that creates the cleansing release for both creators and consumers of drama.
And if you are lucky enough to be moved to tears by something you have written, cherish that moment and keep going and shore up for the long haul ahead. If somebody out there reading has felt a little bit less alone in the world after reading or watching something you have written, I’d consider that a win. As my Uncle Nick used to say, “you beat the track.”
Relish the high.
Alexandra Kostoulas
Writer and Instructor
Jack Grapes METHOD WRITING Program in SF
