brooding.

I had a professor in college who was a little wacky. She was the march-to-your-own-drummer sort of English teacher that no one openly admitted to liking. She asked for brazenness and silly self-expression that made me, at least on the face of it, hate her classes. But there was always that little high I got from whatever ridiculous thing she made us write or read or do. And not shockingly, there are things she taught me that sort of bubble up in my consciousness when I least expect it.

So.

I wrote something for one of her classes, I don’t remember what anymore, and she gave me one line of feedback on it. Stop writing so passively. She was absolutely right and still is.

This roared up in my brain last night after Jacob described my writing voice as detached and passive. It wasn’t a criticism, and sometimes passive and detached is exactly how I mean to write. But I really do write passively....all the time. Whether I mean to or not.

In one sense it’s nothing more than a grammatical choice. But in another, it is a subtle way to say things with less conviction, sharpness, passion and ownership. I literally tend toward writing in the passive rather than active voice. I use turns of phrase like seems and might be and appears and so on. It’s less vulnerable and frankly easier to write with less authenticity and self.

I’ve been reading Susan Cain’s book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, and it really has gotten my wheels spinning. It’s ushered in the epiphany that things I once considered my flaws might be the very opposite. She describes the powerful, heart-thumping empathy I have felt my entire life. She describes the intense dreams and consuming emotions, both good and bad, that might overtake a highly sensitive and introverted person. She mentions such people tend to avoid violent movies - which I absolutely do. She even describes the case of a child who would cry when other children got into trouble in class. Me, I blush when I can tell other people are feeling embarrassed.

At any rate, the book is both interesting and intensely comforting to me. Anyone who has spent their life hearing things like You don’t say much, do you? can be reassured that the quietness is not a character flaw, but a unique strength.

Speaking of intense emotions, can I tell you something?

I regularly find myself thinking, What’s the point? Sometimes I think it about writing, about art, about creativity, you-name-it. I’m the brooding type and most overthinking leads to that grasping for meaning. Well, in my case it does.

I read something today that triggered this in me. It was about the state of publishing and overly personal memoir crap writing (this is a thing). It made me immediately feel like I could never belong in the real world of writing, after which I questioned why I was writing, who would read it, do I even want anyone to read it, and then the sky looked gray (but it wasn’t) and I felt like I better give up on writing now.

Here’s how I get back: I remember that the only purpose may be because I want to and the rest will just figure itself out. Without my brooding. So I keep on, doing good where I can, figuring out what I love and filling my life up with it. That is enough.