Protecting Your Pain

We like to think that we protect things/people that we care about. Kids. Households. Jobs. Reputations. But pain? We hate pain, right, so why in the world would we want to protect it? Right?

Actually, for most us, there is pain that we don't want to let go. We pet it, ruminate on it, repeat it, check it again and again like that sore tooth that we just can't stop touching with our tongues.

For writers and other people who define themselves as "artistic," this is especially dangerous. For one, we're defining ourselves as something. And two, that definition becomes our story, the fences, the borders of our lives (there's no way I can do x ... y or z). I remember reading about writers' lives in graduate school, really digging into their bios, and thinking, wow, I might not be that good of a writer because I would rather be happy.

Uh .... but then life happened, as it always does. And suddenly, I had my own wounds. Now, before you think that "Nope, this couldn't be the norm. Protecting pain is stupid! Why would I want to hurt?," ponder this. You've been out with a person (person #1) who says they're over someone but just can't stop talking about that person.

Or you're with a person (person #2) who seems to have a deep sadness. They don't want to talk about the past, but they allude to that fact. Instead of it not coming up, they avoid it, keep things surface, etc.

Both of these tactics protect pain.

Person #1 rereads the script over and over, creating a habit, a history, a story that eventually becomes a belief. It's the guy at the VA hospital that grosses out the Candy Stripers by showing his nasty scar and repeating in too much detail how it happened. Note: This is different than processing pain, working through it, sharing with those close to you in order to form stronger bonds. But eventually, those relationships need to grow past the pain, or they will wear out.

Person #2 keeps a bandage over the old wound. There is possession. This is my pain -- you couldn't possibly understand. Note: This is different than "going there" and really looking at something in your quiet time, really shining the light on something in your mind in order to clear out the cobwebs.

Now, if you noticed such a person, well, more than likely you've been  that person. I have.

I've been writing a Story of Me for years -- something I repeat to people, highlighting things, but more than that, repeating it to myself. And I have cared about the pain, even though I would've dismissed you if you'd pointed that out. I didn't know I cared about it, but in certain corners of my life, it was still hanging out. And like watching Dirty Dancing for the 71st time, I'd play over that pain again, remind myself of the feelings, the specifics, the whole thing down to the credits.

Here's the real deal. You don't have to drink yourself to oblivion like F. Scott Fitzgerald to be a writer, kill yourself like Sylvia Plath, be depressed like Hemingway, cut off your ear like Van Gogh, or fire people routinely to show your leadership like Steve Jobs. There is no story you have to fill in the blanks to to be a writer or create anything.

Pain is natural, and actually pain is good! It is telling you "Danger! Something is wrong here!" Why would you keep listening to the fire alarm instead of putting out the fire??

Don't underestimate research

"I've been to the Jack Daniels distillery."

As soon as it escaped my lips, I knew. I was talking, making bad small talk, actually, with the editor of a BOURBON lifestyle magazine. At that moment, I didn't really know there was a bourbon lifestyle, much less a publication devoted to it.

But there is. Case in point on the Jack Daniels: click here.

Jack Daniels is a Tennessee Whisky, y'all. Not a bourbon. However, the gentleman politely blinked his eyes to gather himself, and then said, "That's great. We're from Kentucky, so Jack Daniels isn't technically a bourbon, but ..."

The essence of politeness, graciousness, and all things the bourbon lifestyle I presume. We smiled and chatted, but I knew the bell was tolling for me. It was obvious I knew nothing, especially not enough to not mention Jack Daniels.

But herein lies the power of research, ladies and gentleman, and a warning. Sometimes life at the little desk is not about writing, but about researching, and on bourbon I was enthusiastic but ignorant.

That means, Steph, you can talk a man under the table any day, and find a 1000 other connections besides this. Do not talk about what you do not know.

This goes for writing too. Yes, you can write an article on ventricular malfunctions, but it will take some serious research unless that field comes to you. And if so, it's easy. If not, you set yourself up for failure, as readers often know more than you in such cases.

For me, food research comes somewhat naturally. I follow food writers on twitter, read food books, follow food news, and well, after all, eat and cook. I enjoy reading about food. But if you think Zaxby's is the height of living, then it could be hard to get serious about food writing.

As for me and bourbon -- I just need to get serious. I am ready for an education past Knob Creek and Maker's Mark. That is, if my palate is worthy of passing those gateways ... if I say I love rye whisky does that help?

Day Bleeds into Night

Last night, past dusk, I walked to my car, parked on the Battery.

The shadows had lengthened enough in the South of Broad neighborhood that the color had bled out of everything, and the corridor was layered also with the scent of jasmine and men smoking cigars who were walking their dogs. Not many lights were on in houses, and Meeting Street felt like a dark tunnel of growing things above me.

The horizon opens up suddenly at White Point Gardens, and beyond it was the water, a calm night, still reflecting a bit of the green and more of the blue left by the setting sun. The moon and Venus were already out, and the trees were silhouettes like those of Clay Rice, perfect edges flat against a light background.