Dear Diary,
Yesterday I had a couple of experiences that really opened up my eyes to what is probably one of my biggest personal flaws: my complete lack of ability when it comes to expressing how I (and my characters) feel.
I'm sure that I do in fact experience a wide range of human emotion, but I use such a limited vocabulary to describe it: happy, sad, annoyed, angry, guilty.
It's just that I don't often reflect deeply on what I'm feeling, nor do I regularly communicate my state of mind to anyone. (My wife might disagree with that last bit.)
This concept has bubbled up in the back of my mind a few times over the last few years, whenever I've considered my approach to writing fiction. In the past I have gone so far as to say that I don't like reading books written in close-third or first-person perspective, because the main character is always blabbing on and on about how they feel. A plot event that in reality takes about half a second to occur will be dragged on for pages and pages as the protagonist experiences their emotions.
So you might say I'm more of a plot person than a people person. At any rate, in my first book, Programmed Cell Death, I made deliberate efforts to avoid describing what the characters are going through on an emotional level, instead preferring to let their words and actions reveal their internal states. Perhaps I was taking the old writers' motto of "Show, Don't Tell" a bit too far.
I used to think that I was obligated to include a bit of emotion in my stories, as that seems to be what most people want to read (but not me). Lately however, (specifically, ever since yesterday morning), I've been reconsidering my stance. I'm realizing that my opposition to the verbal expression of emotion is (quite obviously in retrospect) a result of ingrained societal toxic masculinity, rather than being an aspect of my personal tastes.
As a feminist, I have tried to reflect on and overcome many of my ingrained biases. This is one that I didn't even realize was holding me back, until yesterday.
I was at my five-year-old son's pre-school graduation ceremony. (I know, we violated coronavirus isolation, but that's a whole other post. Basically the gathering was very small, only about eight kids and their parents, the chairs were far apart, everyone was required to take their temperature at the door and wear masks at all times, and the moment it was over, everyone bolted for the exit. But that's not the point.)
The point is this: near the end of the (very short and sweet) ceremony, I could hear a number of people sniffling. I leaned across the distance separating me from my wife, and I whispered, "Sounds like everyone's sick after all." And she said, "No, dummy--they're sad! Their babies are growing up!"
And I said, "Oh... Should I be feeling something more?"
"Well, it wouldn't hurt just to feel more, in general."
And that's when it hit me, and I've been thinking about it ever since.
The second experience happened in the evening, when I was sitting on the couch with Sara, watching the movie Emma. The matchmaker protagonist sets up her friends on a sort of date, and afterwards, the man says something like, "It was marvelous! It felt simply amazing!"
And it hit me again: I don't know how to talk like that. So I've decided to practice.
Today I feel ambitious. I feel a ferocious determination to accomplish my goals. I feel unstoppable. I'm also feeling nervous and wary, because one of my goals for today is to run five kilometers in less than thirty minutes, and this will require me to go outside. I promise I won't get too close to anyone.
Love, Jon
