I’m not sure why, but it seems as if every writer I have ever known has been what I would call “damaged goods”. Those of you nodding your heads know what I’m talking about. You’ve probably noticed it when looking in the mirror. Writers are, for the most part, those people with social obstacles built in, like little ice-makers, in the freezer section of their brains.
Maybe it’s depression, maybe a weight problem, drinking, drugs, or some psychic pain born of an awful childhood. Your father didn’t appreciate you, Mom liked one of your siblings best and for some reason couldn’t remember your name a lot of the time. And now you’re the uneasy-looking guy or gal who can’t quite meet other people’s gazes head-on, with a twitch that started the day you found the family dog poisoned by the steak some nasty neighbor threw over the back fence to avenge his befouled lawn. You’re a writer, if you also happen to have the requisite desire to somehow right those scales, to make it all better through the stories you tell.
We writers tend to frequent the offices of those who practice psychopharmacology. We consume cocktails of soothing chemicals that “round the edges” for us. We’re that person in the family who never quite turned out the way everybody hoped we would. We see things in such a negative light. (Well, duh, yeah, because from our perspective, as walking emotional triage candidates, it’s a realistic light.) Woody Allen comes to mind, a man who has probably spent a significant percentage of his adult life making full body contact with leather couches or recliners in the presence of “doctor Somebody”. He’s a terrific writer. And as a human being? I’m not sure, but I suspect his head is just as frizzy on the inside as it is on the outside. He’s wise, to be sure. He’s even comfortable as a writer/director/actor… and yet… scuffed up, yes?
Writers attune themselves to pain, and it’s not an accident. If you feel it yourself, you go looking to find others who might share your affliction — or some affliction, please. A room full of half-hour sitcom writers (I speak from experience, here) is often among the most depressing places you can find that doesn’t say “cemetery” on the outside. Here groups of notoriously miserable souls convene and tell each other, in the flattest, most deadpan of monotones possible, “Yeah. That could be funny.” Or: “Big laugh, huge laugh.” They, of course, look more like they’re going to cry as they’re saying this. And it’s all between snack and lunch breaks during which they eat as if they were deprived when they were children, and which they have discussed nonstop since the moment they arrived in the morning. You think I’m kidding? You know I’m not.
Example. Me. I have, for whatever reason (some say it’s a gene with a quirk), stuttered since I was a little boy. Now this is not meant to be a clumsy attempt at garnering your sympathy, because I neither want nor need your sympathy. (Yes, I also have defiance issues.) It’s just a fact that has been present in my life and has, among other bonuses, given me the tendency to spot the discomforts that other people might be feeling more quickly than most. It’s also given me a heightened appreciation for words, since I’ve often found myself scrambling for one that I can say in place of whatever I’m hung-up on when talking. The benefits of this must be obvious to anyone who writes: it’s broadened my vocabulary. I don’t think it’s made me a good writer, if I am, because I think that’s an altogether different gene. But since I write fiction and walk around noticing the little pains and fears that might be lurking in others, I have a feeling it helps in building characters who might be interesting or, I hope, identifiable to the reader.
Which brings me to the crux of what will pass for my point: it’s possible to turn the damage done to you, the writer, to your advantage. All you have to do is recognize the absurdity of what you’ve been feeling over all those years where you wouldn’t make friends with anybody or talk to the neighbors. The sensitivity to the human predicament that your psychic wound enables you to see is your greatest source of… everything. You are the one who notices that the Barn is Red. You spot the three-legged dog and ruminate on how well he’s adapted and how noble and evocative his very existence, happy and content, really is. You see it all because you are the Red Barn. You are the Three-Legged Dog. You are the writer.
So how come you’re reading this instead of writing?
* * * * *
Tom Szollosi is a native of Los Angeles, where he has written film and TV for many years. He taught screenwriting at UCLA Extension and has five produced films plus over 100 hours of television to his credit. He’s almost ready to unleash his third novel, Dead Set on Tuesday, and can be caught blogging irregularly at http://www.bloginafog.wordpress.com. You can learn more about Tom’s books on Amazon.com.
Bravo, Tom.
Brilliant! Love the insight into sitcom writers. And there are phrases here I might have to steal.. or should I say "re-work"?
And my answer to the question at the end: because I suck. Thanks to the tragic childhood, the alcoholism, and the mother who insisted on calling me Melissa. 😉
Just yes, a resounding loud echoing yessss!
Smart, but not too clever.
Regards, David.
Oh I am writing, now and before I read this post, and now I'm going back to more creative tooth pulling – no writing.
Brilliant Tom. I swear man, it's like we share a brain but you get to use it more. If you and Antrobus and I ever get locked in an elevator it will either be really good or really, really bad. It will be really something. Great post. And my standard: everyone should read The Space He Filled. If I ever have time to read in the future, I'm gonna read it again.
You guys bring the two halves of brain, I bring the looks?
I will read it, for sure. And if I like it, I'll even review it (I hate reviewing books i don't lie, makes me feel like a heel.)
I would want to be there to observe Mader, Antrobus and Szollosi in a panel discussion on any topic, but not locked in an elevator (too close…a phobia of mine.)
Writers observe what others most often, don't see. Is that a blessing or a curse? Writing turns it into a blessing, from my p.o.v. Ignorance may be bliss, but for some of us, that's just not an option!
Aw, hell, this is great. Thank you! Yeah. The best comedy comes from damage. Now I must go write until the evil clowns dissolve. And if I'm trapped in that elevator with y'all, dibs on the Ativan.
I got Ativan! I'll bring extra.
Thank you all! This is just like group!
🙂
So you've outed me eh? I relentlessly refuse to fit in — anywhere — except in psychotherapy and my last therapist retired, probably to get away from me. Great piece!
Interesting. Mine retired, too, so I got a new one. Coincidence?
So true, Tom. I call it my radar. In my case it also acts as a magnet for those in need of a sympathetic ear. Even before I hit puberty adults three times my age would take me aside to confide in me. I think when we have been 'damaged' we can't help but notice the 'damage' of others. I think it also makes us better observers, and hence better writers.
I am a magnet for homeless people, inebriated people and wacky characters of all sorts. My wife doesn't get it.
This is why I can’t go to Wal-Mart. They find me and follow me around, telling me stories. One woman yelled at me.
LOL. Tell me about it. Man, if I had a dollar for every random homeless person that has hugged me on the street or in walgreens.
Sorry – you got ME wrong.
Nothin' wrong with me at all. Born perfect, stayed perfect. Er…
Deep breath, Rosanne. It's okay, really, we're all here for you… well, not really, but what am I supposed to say? I've got enough to handle with my own troubles, to be honest. And that's another thing. Being honest… ain't all it's cracked up to be. Lying can be VERY rewarding.
It's why we all write fiction. The truth is much too scary. And anyway, we can drop hints as we go, like the little guys in the forest, hoping the trail will bring help, one day.
Echoing everybody's kudos, Tom. And I'll add that it was particularly painful for me when my Mom forgot my name, as I am an only child. (zing!)
Tom, you've done it again- brilliant post. Looking forward to your next entry in bloginafog…
Imagine if every author of oddball fiction actually admitted that the loons in his stories were actually him and his friends and family.
They don't even have to, Pete.
Tom,
What a lovely post.
Before a class my yoga instructor once said, "In our practice today we will focus on acceptance, and in turning our weaknesses into our strengths."
Bob Fosse had a very poor turnout, a critical element for a classical dancer. He took what he didn't have and developed it into one of the most iconic dance styles in theatre.
Too bad I'm not a dancer. I had a poor turnout on my book, and all it did was depress the hell out of me.