15 Nov Embracing vulnerability. How to be a better writer.

Want to be a better writer? Then work at being a better person.

I came across this statement years ago and I’ve never forgotten it. I only wish I could remember who said it. There’s no short cut with this one, but being a better person is great advice if you want to be a better writer.

But what exactly does it mean?

What the statement is pointing towards is the idea of understanding what it is to be human. To study that, and to reflect on it. To let ourselves be fully human – to not shy away from it, to not give in to our fear and our shame and our anxiety. It’s about accepting that it’s a messy business, full of contradiction. That we are messy – full of contradiction. The statement urges us to deepen our capacity for self-awareness and reflection. It asks us to pay attention – to be curious about the friends, loved ones, colleagues and strangers that share our lives, taking the time to understand their needs, motives, intentions and idiosyncrasies. To ask questions, and listen properly to the answers. It means noticing the particularities that make a person unique. You know that perennial writing tip that suggests we go sit in a cafe and watch the people around us? It’s a bit like that, only we give it more time and commitment.

Being a better person involves turning the spotlight on ourselves too…

The best way to develop our understanding of others is to shine a light into the shadows of the self – exploring what makes us tick and what pushes our buttons. This inevitably means being prepared to acknowledge and confront our flaws and limitations – all the knotty, gristly bits that we prefer to keep hidden from view. Easier said than done. It takes effort (what exactly this looks like differs from person to person) to become more conscious, more awake, more honest and open. And time. Patience. Commitment. Crucially, it requires us to embrace vulnerability. Seeing our imperfections, our weaknesses, the way we hurt others and the things we run from takes courage, but it’s the bedrock of understanding. It doesn’t happen overnight. Some might even suggest it’s a life’s work. But any work we choose to do in this area will improve our writing.

How can it really make a difference?

In its simplest terms it makes a difference because great stories are all about great characters. If we want to create well-rounded characters that scream authenticity and keep our readers enthralled, then we need to see beyond our character’s most obvious traits. We need to see the vulnerability behind the violence, or the strength behind the passivity. We need to look for the surprises in their personality and actions, and the hidden meaning in the things they say. This is about peeling back the layers to see what lies beneath. The better acquainted we are with our own imperfections, the better we’ll be at muddying the waters when writing. And muddy the waters we must. The temptation can be to create only heroes for protagonists. But our characters are human beings. They are necessarily flawed and imperfect – just as we are.

Are we comfortable with our darker side?

The more we deny the darker side of our selves, the more likely we are to create two dimensional characters on the page. For some stories we might be happy to do just that. But, as writers, we need the ability to  go deeper if we choose. If there are parts of life we find embarrassing, emotions we find shameful, or situations we refuse to face then we limit our scope as writers, because there will be so much that we avoid in our writing. We risk treating some of our characters unfairly, or sounding smug, patronising or judgemental. Or our writing just ends up a little too neat – it’s kind of appealing on one level, but deeply unsatisfying on another.

Can I really write that?

The writing that works its way beneath a reader’s skin, is the writing that speaks the truth. It is the writing that says the unsayable. It’s a mother that regrets motherhood. A lovable, upstanding character with vile thoughts bubbling beneath the surface. It is the father that wakes – appalled – from a sexual dream about his daughter. It is, in other words, the writing that reaches right through shame and out the other side. We might not wish to write about such things, and that’s fine. Not all writing needs to be so visceral. But, chances are, whatever we’re writing about, there will at some point be a moment when we stop at the end of a paragraph and think, can I really write that? What will my daughter / mother / partner / friend say? What will people think? What will people think of me because I’ve written that?

Being a better person boosts our bravery in those moments – because being a better person is about seeing the world as it is, rather than how we would like it to be. It is about seeing all of us (not just our antagonists) as flawed and imperfect. And knowing that it’s okay.

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