Ears, pen ready for new stories
In the 1980s, a New York artist urged citizens to call his answering machine and leave him their confessions. He was dubbed “Mr. Confession” by the media, and the artist was inundated with calls. He plugged into an overwhelming need for people to confess their anger and despair.
Today marks the beginning of my third year as a columnist. My vow was to write a yearly state-of-the-column address. This year, I felt like “Mrs. Listen.” People seemed desperate to tell their stories, large and small, in a culture short of willing listeners.
In the past two months, I’ve awakened on more than one occasion with a blocked right ear, as if someone has stuffed cotton into my eardrum. I saw a kindly ear-nose-and-throat specialist last week who did a hearing test and peered into my ears. Diagnosis: Excellent hearing. No blockage of the ear canals.
As I drove away from the doctor’s office, I thought of the metaphor of a blocked ear. Maybe I only want to hear half as much as I do. On any given work day, I receive between five and 20 calls from readers pitching column ideas. I say no to 90 percent of the ideas. I explain that I don’t do columns on anniversaries or birthdays of any kind, feature or regular obituaries, community events, grand openings, dedications or specific projects or programs, no matter how worthy.
I don’t write about these topics because I get so many requests that it wouldn’t be fair to say yes to some and no to others. And my primary mandate is to share my spin on the news. I also don’t write about them because they often make for very boring columns.
I am honest with readers about the first two reasons. But I never say the last one aloud. Too blunt. But I might start being more honest about all the reasons. As a nearly 50-year-old woman who grew up, like many women of my era, with an almost pathological desire to be liked, it’s been a blessed relief to be in trouble for some of my columns this past year.
Some readers have called me silly, ignorant and irritating. Instead of arguing with them, I explain that a columnist’s job is to provoke a dialogue by writing his or her opinion in an authentic way. And I sometimes tell them this story: In the seventh grade, I talked so much that my closest friends shunned me for a month. They turned their backs to me on the playground. They said I irritated them. They were right then. And readers I irritate now are probably correct now. That’s fine.
This column has allowed me to practice daily two things I’ve been working on for a decade. One, I’m better able to say no, with minimal explanation or apology. And two, it’s OK to be in trouble for expressing an opinion. This has been an amazing freedom.
I do worry, however, that so many people call me with their stories because they are not being listened to in their lives. I have a theory why this might be so. These past few years, we’ve witnessed events we could never have imagined. Terrorist attacks. Corrupt business leaders. Bankrupt Catholic dioceses. And Martha Stewart in prison!
Psychologists will tell you that people in trauma need to repeat their stories. As a culture, we’re suffering from chronic low-grade trauma. And we’re trying to better understand what’s going on by fashioning the events of our lives into coherent narratives. Esquire magazine reported this month that 23 reality programs showed up on the fall TV schedule. And while the reading of fiction has declined, sales of nonfiction books have increased dramatically.
In some writing workshops I did this year, I asked participants to tell one another one-minute stories. Any story. Didn’t matter. But I gave specific instructions to the listeners. They couldn’t fidget, interrupt, ask questions or daydream about their own one-minute stories. They needed simply to listen, without comment or judgment. It’s harder than it sounds.
My right ear is unplugged now. I feel renewed energy to hear and write our community’s stories – interspersed with my opinion – for another year. This is a privilege, and I don’t take it for granted. Honest.