Writing Without the Me #3
Exercise #6 Change Voices
As I suppose I should mention at the top of all of these, this is part of a series of exercises I’m doing in an effort to become a more productive (and better) writer. In this one, we are meant to describe a person we know well two times. First, as we see them (in the third person) and then again as they see themselves (in the first person). It didn’t go well.
I should have known something was up when the exercise itself rubbed me the wrong way. To my ears, it implied an arrogant assumption of hyper-awareness in the writer. “I can see others as the world sees them but also as they see themselves.”
It got worse from there. The author— Beth Baruch Joselow— suggested I use my mom. It’s been my habit in doing these (and most other) things to choose the first option, but this time I didn’t. I figured Mom might read it someday so instead I chose my dad. But here’s the thing: Dad also knows how to read. And there’s nothing to stop him or someone he knows from coming across this post. It’s unlikely but as anyone with Netflix knows, stranger things have happened. Something I wish I had considered before I spent an uncomfortable half-hour trying to get in my dad’s skin.
Instead, I produced an unpublishable mess. A 500-word pile of anxiety. But you won’t find it here. I think I kind of knew it was a mistake even before I began. I knew he might read it so I held back a little. Tried to make it nicer, maybe, than I would have otherwise. Tried to make myself seem like a better person in the process. And yet, it still feels like it’s too much. Too personal. And on top of that, it’s just weird to try to jump into your parents’ minds. Like an overfull blender, there’s just too much there to properly process.
Me imaging what it’s like to be my own father.
So yeah. It’s a mess. I should do it over, or I could, anyway. Someday I might. But for this week all I have to share is a post to simply admit that I failed, with a few excuses thrown in for flair. Just like with the last post, I didn’t choose my subject very well and, as a result, I didn’t really do the exercise well either. A small, sad, and desperate part of me wants to claim that maybe— probably!— I actually did do it properly— better than properly!—and it turned out great, but I’m just too considerate and ethically upright to share the hauntingly accurate picture of a family member on the internet.
But no. The truth is I realized I just don’t know a lot about my dad. I feel very connected to him, yes, but that’s not the same thing. Plus I’m aware I held back when talking about stuff I do know. It’s not false, but it’s fake. There’s an artifice to it. Trying to inhabit your parent is some advanced-level shit. Especially if you don’t know them very well. And I might not know anyone very well, come to think of it. Maybe there’s a lesson there. That in order to become a better writer, I need to become a better person? Or maybe to consider more carefully what I stuff into the blender before I start up the blades
