Back in April, I volunteered as a studio monitor during the Southeast Regional Ballet Association’s festival here in Jackson, where some 800 ballet students and teachers gathered for three days of dance classes and evening performances. My sixteen-year-old granddaughter’s local dance company, Mississippi Metropolitan Ballet, hosted SERBA—a huge undertaking—and I wanted to help out. I also knew I would enjoy watching the dancers in class, so my motivation was partly selfish.
My duties? Introduce myself to the master teacher and the pianist, make sure the right dancers were in that studio, fetch whatever was needed, call for help if a dancer was injured, wipe down the barres after class. I knew what to do, but I didn’t expect the master teacher’s most important insight.
I’ve watched my granddaughter’s developing talent, hard work, and dedication over the years, so I wasn’t surprised at the young dancers’ talent and intensity. Some of them had arrived in the room by the time I got there, nearly 30 minutes before class began, and were already warming up. I sensed their nervousness; I was nervous, too, and worried that the teacher might be harsh or demanding. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I watched as he put the dancers through their paces, pushed, corrected, encouraged, and praised them.
And then, toward the end of the first class, he said something remarkable: Technique, he said, isn’t enough. You can be technically proficient, but without emotion, you’ll never be a true artist. Repeatedly, he urged them to feel the music, to make their entire bodies expressions of emotion.
Artistry on the page
The same is true of writing. Artistry on the page isn’t about skill alone or even about eloquent writing. We can study and master craft; we can have a gift for language and story-telling; but if we can’t create emotion in ways that compel readers to feel, the prose will be flat, no matter how well written.
I learned a long time ago that my best work comes from an emotional place deep inside me where, quite often, I’d rather not go. When I become aware that a story isn’t working, I have to look at what I’m holding back.
One of the first stories I ever wrote and published (“Appendix,” published in the wonderful but now defunct Crescent Review) gave me a lot of trouble as I tried to write it. It dealt with betrayal, a subject that should have been fraught with emotion, yet no matter how I tried, I knew it wasn’t working. My husband gave me great advice: Step back from it, he said; change the POV, and give those emotions to somebody who’s the opposite of you.
I tried what he suggested, and the story came pouring out of me. And yet, even though I’d successfully created distance, I’d go upstairs after spending hours at the computer late at night (I was teaching full time then; that was when I had time to write), lock myself in the bathroom, and sob.
I’m not saying that tapping that kind of painful experience is necessary for every story, nor is probing personal experience right for every writer. For example, if writing about an experience brings back too many raw, painful feelings, give it more time before you tackle transferring that emotion to a fictional character. There may very well be some places you can never go in your fiction.
Going the distance
But my husband’s advice holds true. Take what terrifies you or makes you angry or sad or jealous and pour that emotion into a character who isn’t you. I read somewhere once that a fictional character will always be the writer in some way, whether we intend it or not. I believe that’s true. But if you’re dealing with difficult feelings, gain some distance. Give them away to someone very different from you, or turn the circumstances on their pretty little heads and write.
So, as with any art—dance or music or visual art or photography—writing techniques and skills must be mastered. We have to learn the rules before we can successfully break them. So we learn the craft. There’s no end to that, is there? We’re always learning! And then we reach inside and pull out our own hearts and examine them in the harsh light of day. We mine our experiences for feelings, and we make of them gifts for our readers.
How do you shape your characters’ emotions? Where do they come from?
12 thoughts on “Own the Emotion, Then Give It Away”
I love the connection between the art forms. Your experience releasing emotion for that story is such good advice. Especially in the distance you created to open up to the emotion. Sometimes it seems like you can’t say what you mean if you come at it directly, and it works so much better to come at it from a completely different angle. I was glad to stumble across this post today. Thanks!
I’m glad you stumbled across it, too! Are you trying to (gently) nudge me back to the blog? I have woefully neglected blogging over the summer, but I have a couple of new stories to show for it. Thanks for the comment, Elissa.
Nudge, nudge! 🙂 Really, I wasn’t… although I did notice you hadn’t posted in awhile and I missed it! Your posts are always so insightful. But I also think it’s healthy to have breaks, without needing an excuse — when I’m not blogging, I’m usually exploring my writing or how I view the world in other ways, so hopefully that’s what you’ve been up to. You’re missed when you’re gone, though!
Like! : ) Thank you!
This is so profound. I love the instructor’s advice. It’s funny the parallel’s there are among all the arts: dance, writing, sculpting, music, etc. We have to learn the technique, and then we have to breathe life into it–body and soul.
Thanks for inspiring me on this fine Sunday!
Thank you for stopping by, Erin! You summed it up: “Breathe life into it.” I like that!
Great advice, Gerry. I have a post-it near my laptop that says, “emote, emote, emote.” But sometimes, emoting gets me too agitated to write and I end up pacing instead. I know it’s time for a break then.
Great idea, that “emote” post-it! But getting to the heart of a piece can be gut-wrenching. Thanks for stopping by, jlynn.
You had me hooked with ballet. My daughter danced until she was sixteen. She was in the Nutcracker with the Atlanta Ballet for 4 years and I helped in many, many ways. I loved those days and I love the ballet. Then you advanced the post to writing advice and gave us a personal story. Gerry, it doesn’t get better than this, for me. Really enjoyed your post.
Sabra, so we have the love of ballet in common! That teacher’s comment really struck me. What he said is true of all art, I think. Thanks for your comment.
What incredibly excellent advice, it all makes sense when you put it like that.. thank you gerry.. I was feeling a little stalled, everything was too close… good, I know how to fix it now.. c
Now if I can take my own advice, right, Celi? Keep at it; you’re a natural storyteller. Thanks for stopping by here. I wish I had some interesting animals to show you!