At a writing camp when I was 15, a professor told me that when I deeply cared about a subject, it reflected in my writing. But when I was disinterested, the writing became flat. At the time, it felt like a biting criticism of my work. I was ashamed that I couldn’t apply the same level of passion to all of my writing, regardless of subject.
So I set out to change that, fighting against the currants of life as I worked on a variety of journalistic stories that required active writing, but limited emotion. I wanted my stories on planning board decisions to have as much power as crime stories. I wanted business stories to reflect the owners in the best way. And this worked, because evenly written journalism is good journalism.
But three decades later, I see the observation differently: it was the guidance I needed to help me really tap into my best work. The more personal pieces I’ve written in the last decade or two have benefitted from my ability to write emotions.
Some of my most acclaimed writing — the pieces that have earned public praise and acknowledgement — have come from writing pain. Tapping into the specific aches that come with trauma and loss is something I do well. And, at times, it’s felt like it’s what I do best.
It’s the pounding of a heart in a chest paralyzed a firm pressure. It’s the intensity of sleeplessness and loss of appetite as you process a shock. It’s the persistent longing for something different, something that may never be. It’s the way trauma and pain make you want to turn back time or fast forward to escape, even when it’s not possible. These are the things I’ve thought about about as I process these emotions through writing including in my pieces after Sandy Hook.
The more specific you get with the emotional response, the greater the connection with the reader. And this is where revision can be exceptionally helpful. Sometimes you write the first draft without tapping too closely into those emotions, and then return to it to make well-placed additions that can become relatable, even if the reader hasn’t been in the same specific situation.
It’s things like the rush to dry clothes before school and recalling the specific items and thought processes. It’s the specific volume and tone of voice used in a conversation. It’s the tears that come at the most inopportune times.
Over time though, I have come to realize that I can also write other emotions well. Though trauma and loss are the ones I’ve used this technique with the most, I have found that the infectious qualities of happiness and joy can also be a powerful force.
In some ways, preserving and connecting with happiness and joy is even more precious, since those are emotions that fill you up in the most wonderful way.
It’s what I tapped into while writing the Disney Princess Tea Parties Cookbook — a specific joy that was necessary to elevate the topic (plus, who doesn’t love princesses?). It’s also something I have tapped in more recently, writing about friendship and understanding (that’s coming soon!).
The key is to lean into the emotions as they are happening. Write happy when you’re happy. Write joy when it’s coursing through your veins, a force to be reckoned with. Write confusion when everything feels murky and uncertain. And write through pain when it clouds everything, leaving you scattered and unsure. It’s a powerful thing to help you find your way — and to connect with others.
And that’s really it: moods change. It’s not about leaning into trauma, pain, happiness, joy, love, desire, betrayal or any other mood specifically. It’s about leaning in when it happens. It’s about dwelling in the feelings in the moment so your reader can feel it too.
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