Like it or not, I’m an optimist. I was either born that way or my Midwestern upbringing persuaded me to be that way.
Which makes me wonder sometimes when I sit down to write, am I too much of an optimist? Too trusting? Too hopeful?
Am I too danged nice in my writing — too kind to myself, too kind to my fellow humans, too sanguine about the future of the human race, given the lawlessness and civil strife in places like Haiti and Sudan?
Shouldn’t I get a little angry once in a while? Do some heavy-duty, fault-finding social criticism like John Steinbeck?
During the time he was preparing to write “The Grapes of Wrath,” Steinbeck wrote, “I want to put a tag of shame on the greedy bastards who are responsible for (the Depression).” And of the people who would read his book, Steinbeck declared, “I’ve done my damnedest to rip a reader’s nerves to rags.”
Rip a reader’s nerves to rags? I haven’t the heart.
Is My Writing Too Nice?
Would my writing improve, on the other hand, if it were a little drearier? Emil Cioran had the downer chops to write things like, “A book is a suicide postponed.” I lack Cioran’s knack for pessimism.
In which case, should I go for cynical like atheist Richard Dawkins, who thought, “a case can be made that faith is one of the world’s great evils, comparable to the smallpox virus but harder to eradicate.”
Would it help to be scathing, like Joan Didion in her essay “Getting Serenity,” in which she skewers the folks and the stories they shared at a Gamblers Anonymous meeting in Los Angeles?
If not scathing, then maybe my writing could be looser around the edges. Could I take it “On the Road” with Jack Kerouac and go crazy with sex, drugs and hellbent nonconformity?
I can’t do it.
Well, actually I could. I did it once. Sorta.
Back in 1969, I quit my straight job in New York City, moved West, bought a pair of hippie-made leather sandals, and joined the women’s movement.
It wasn’t long, though, before I’d tucked myself back into the the American dream, complete with husband, house, kids and a regular paycheck.
I like my American dream. I like writing about it. I like writing about shopping for a wedding dress with my daughter. I like writing about refusing to sort my husband’s socks. I don’t have the skill set to take on Haiti or Sudan. But I can find the story in a worn out T-shirt.
Dear Barbara,
I returned yesterday from two absolutely wondrous weeks caring for my three month old grandchild, Ms. Lily Baer. She is an optimist to the core, except when she gets too hungry or too tired. She beams light on those she loves, almost sings in her communications, and smiles when she passes under big trees.
I appreciate your voice of optimism, even though I have been most attracted to your widow’s tale as I find it an understanding of my own experience these past few years. I think what I value is truth-telling and in both your sadness and in your optimism there is truth-telling.
Growing up in Berkeley under dark clouds of social/political pessimism, I had to supplement my belief that “life,” not artistic despair, was the challenge with taking lessons from “Learned Optimism” and learned optimists.
I am fundamentally attracted in literature to beautiful prose and authors that for me strive to be truth-tellers. In the past years I have loved the crisp-cut nuanced insights of Rachel Cusk and the delicate stories of Claire Keegan in which each finely chosen word reflects a paragraph, a paragraph a chapter, and a chapter a book. Cusk explores realism in a self-demanding way and Keegan shapes poetically from it.
So write from your heart as you do,
Kathleen
Kathleen, Writing from the heart can be a little scary, so thank you. Hearing from you so consistently over the years since Jon died has given me courage. Yes! I will keep on writing from the heart as best I can . . . I love the way you put this: “Life, not artistic despair” . . . I very much enjoyed Kegan’s “Small Things” and “Foster,” but I have not yet read Rachel Cusk . . . . Meanwhile, I’m just back from a couple of weeks with my grandchildren, 8 and 5. More about that coming soon.
oh, thank goodness you write as yourself, more optimistic than not, certainly, but also not glossing over reality. keep it up. your many readers depend on you and look forward to sunday mornings.
Thank you, Ginger. And I depend on my many readers. It’s so good to know that there are people out there who get what I’m trying to say. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m trying to say until I try my thoughts out on my readers as I write.