Good writer, bad writer…

Recently I’ve been invited to consider a solution to a dilemma I may be facing when it comes to the writing style I choose to develop.

You know the argument that goes on between parents – especially separated parents – “why do I have to be the bad one?”

That’s pretty much my take on the situation.

Like a lot of people from a similar background, I’ve got a bit more than your average dark streak running through me. But I’m dealing with it and most of it is behind me. Well behind me. Over and out.

This darkness used to hang over my writing like a shroud, provoking various responses.

Throughout the nineties, and into the first couple of years of the “noughties”, my writing variously impressed, or upset people. My efforts were variously called “interesting”, “corrupting” and “disturbing”.

That’s with an exception of course. A glaring exception. The same dark streak that was tainting all of this was a bit destructive to my writing, by way of stress and anxiety. My capacity to write was largely compromised – variously being called “crap”, “garbage” and “unreadable”.

The quality of my prose suffered immensely, and then there was the poor editing. Oh boy! My writing took a nose-dive, headlong and full speed into the concrete. Splat!

At the lowest ebb, my writing read like an angry, disjointed flame-mail. Intentional hyperbole just came across as crazy speak. Black humor just came across as unnerving. Ribald just came across as lecherous.

A criminologists’ wet dream, or nightmare (or both – why do psychologists study psychology, again?) Albeit, I don’t have a criminal record. Not even a fine. And even at my worst I’ve always cared a lot about people’s well-being. Even if I’ve faltered at conveying my intentions.

At my darkest, I was never a risk to anyone who wasn’t a much bigger risk to everyone else around us. And I’ve been around some pretty high-risk individuals, let me tell you.

Through my broken writing I frightened a few of the people around me. And I scared more of them and frightened them worse than I was aware of at the time. I was even called “intimidating”, which was never the intention.

1998-2001 was the worst of it by far. I take a torch to everything I wrote in the period – emails, letters, essays; you name it, it was shit. The language centre of my brain fell out and died in a ditch. You should see the correspondence involving conflict resolution with neighbours. I’m glad you can’t.

And oh how I’ll never write bloody poetry again! (Truth be told, I should have learned this in 1992 when I was first complimented as being “corrupting”).

While this dark streak could confer a certain character to my writing, in large doses it was an unmitigated disaster. Like an acid that was made too strong, it just corroded through everything, ruining prose, deforming turn-of-phrase, and allowing the gaps to be filled with all manner of wrong impressions.

I had so much of this darkness running through my mind in the nineties that it was a forgone conclusion. My writing was a loss.

It took a lot of effort to get over it all. And a lot of effort not to fall back into it when my Father passed away in 2003. But at last it’s all over.

So you can probably appreciate that I don’t want to go through it again!

My writing has improved and is still improving. My state of mind is more enjoyable than it has been in a very, very long time. I’ve found an unprecedented inner calm.

All the same, and this is the problem, it seems sometimes that my writing has been permanently tainted. Even when not writing angry, upon later reflection my prose can come across as such. Even with clear recall of the mood I was in when I wrote it. With my writing finally coming back together again, it’s still haunted by my acerbic shadow.

Which brings me back to the point of being invited to consider a solution.

I posed my situation – the angry writing from a place of deep calm – to a nice lady from Arts SA.

First she suggested that this anger came from a deep, dark place that I wasn’t aware of.

I don’t think this is even remotely tenable because I’ve become quite well acquainted with that side of my mind, thank you very much! I’d know it if it was in the game again. My “problem” is more of an after-effect; a ghost.

I explained this briefly, to which she casually responded “use it”.

Gah! Does she really know what she’s asking of me? Why do I have to be the bad one?

Of course, I don’t always write angry from a place of calm, and when writing analytic prose, I make efforts to avoid, or at least moderate it. It can be quite unhelpful, this phantom mean streak. Even when the people who’s cherished ideas you are critiquing, don’t take things the wrong way.

“So what if people don’t get you! Who cares if they take it the wrong way!”

It matters if you’re writing analytic prose! Coming across the wrong way when writing critique, while sometimes the result of willing misunderstanding on the part of the reader, is about as bad as not having your side of a debate understood by the voting party. It’s not the same as fiction being interpreted a thousand and one different ways; except for when deliberately giving your readers a bit of interpretive exercise, you need clarity and precision; no deliberate overstatement; no sarcasm; no in-jokes or overly arcane subtext that could easily be seen as something bad when taken out of context.

And almost certainly no gory metaphors or puns!

But moreover, I’ve found calm through a great deal of difficulty and it’s this calm that’s enabled me to write again. I’m concerned that allowing the dark streak to run rampant with my prose will erode it away again. And perhaps rob me of my newfound calm.

At least I’d like the chance to write in this climate for a bit longer before risking it. Maybe gaining a bit of control over the dark side of my use of language before having to consider using it on a more regular basis.

I’d like to be the good one for once. Not the scary one. Not the evil-disturbing-angry-dangerous one.

I may have come across as a bit of an angry guy, even a crazy guy, but I’m still a good guy underneath all of it. And most everyone else amongst writers seems to get to be a “good one” most of the time anyway – both in terms of that afforded by a safe and sheltered life that I never had, and just in the way their language comes across.

Why do I have to be the bad one? Why can’t I be the good one for once?

~ Bruce