Letters From Kelly

This week, I heard for the first time the phrase “vulnerability hangover.”

AndI know—I’m late! I’m soooo late!

Apparently, the author Brené Brown coined it about 20 years ago. One of my students even told me it’s been in the lexicon so long, bad actors are already weaponizing it.

I am fascinated.

A vulnerability hangover describes the feeling people often have after sharing something deeply personal—they get swamped with a kind of buyer’s remorse, but more intimate. They’re embarrassed, worried they’ve made their audience uncomfortable, or worse, that they’ve alienated them.

It really is a perfect expression. It describes what every writing teacher sees in their inbox about ten minutes after writers post their stories for workshop. I’m now convinced it’s the reason Gotham’s tech support team gets so many emails from students who want to delete and re-upload their Booths, just so they can fix one typo.

The next time someone tells you that all the really great expressions are borrowed from languages other than English, you can retort “Oh, yeah? What about ‘vulnerability hangover’?”

Even more fascinating: Once Brown identified the vulnerability hangover, researchers started exploring it, and they discovered a related phenomenon, which they named, perfectly, the “beautiful mess effect.” It describes the audience, the people who hear the deeply personal confession. Overwhelmingly, they tend to view the person who made the disclosure as strong. They admire them for having the courage to share something so raw. And the flaws at the heart of the story they shared? They see them as part of the beauty of being human.

Basically, just your average night in a Gotham workshop.

I want you to picture it: A classroom above Eighth Avenue in NYC, raised voices, car horns, and the smell of pizza wafting in through the open window. At one end of the table sits a writer, bracing themselves for the class to start discussing their story, their face scarlet, their breathing shallow. Maybe their arms are protectively crossing their chests, maybe they’re kneading their hands between their knees, maybe they’re massaging their temples.

The vulnerability hangover is pounding.

But around them, their classmates are buoyant, chirping with excitement.They can’t wait to tell their fellow writer why their words resonated with them, what they love about the pages, how they hope when it’s their turn, they can be just as brave.

They’re drinking in the beautiful mess.

In every scene, the real action simmers beneath the surface. In every scene, all the characters see the same action in wildly different, often polar opposite, ways, while also cluelessly believing everyone sees it as they do.

Every scene is a beautiful mess.

And so are you, writers. Keep that in mind next time you hyperventilate after you pour your heart into your story, and show it to someone else.

Don’t take my word for it. It’s science.*

Kelly Caldwell

Dean of Faculty

*OK, I haven’t reported out the research on this, so I’m like 85 percent but not 100 percent sure it’s science, just take my word for it, and whatever you do, don’t tell Neil DeGrasse Tyson.

Forbes magazine recently published its list of the 15 best opening lines in fiction, and I’m a sucker for these lists. I read them all. I text them to friends. I should probably be more discerning. But I’m not.

And yet. This one irked me. All 15 were the same openers everyone has named for the last, like, 40 years: Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. Toni Morrison’s Paradise. (Usually, these lists choose the first line from Morrison’s Beloved, so this one did mix it up.Sort of.)

It’s not that I disagree. Gabriel García Márquez nailed it with his opening to One Hundred Years of Solitude. It’s just—there’ve been more recent great first lines, too. Poets & Writers magazine even features a sampling every issue in its Page One column. This month, they included the first line from Hala Alyan’s memoir I’ll Tell You When I’m Home: “I dreamt of a lyrebird once, before I knew it existed.”

But also, Gotham teacher Dalia Pagani recently made me more aware that the literary community tends to over-emphasize what she calls the Big Hook Opening. These are what my journalism colleagues would call grabber ledes. Something heart-stopping and dramatic, rendered in a vivid, preferably short sentence.

Most of the choices on the Forbes list would qualify as Big Hook Openings. As would some of the nonfiction perennial favorites, like Cheryl Strayed’s grabber lede to her essay “The Love of My Life:” The first time I cheated on my husband, my mother had been dead for exactly one week.”

The Big Hook Opening is terrific when you’re writing about death and adultery, or people turning into insects overnight as they sleep.

Dalia’s point, though, is that it’s hard for a story to live up to the promise of the Big Hook Opening. And more importantly, not every story is meant to. Some stories are about two friends out for a walk. A woman misses her dead mom and feeds apelican.

In “Fortunate Sons,” a recent story by Gotham teacher Cleve Lamison, a father and son walk to the roof of their apartment building. Something dramatic does happen, eventually, but mostly, it’s a father-son story. And it starts like one: “By the time we reached the 11th floor, my chest heaved like I was a drowning man chasing the surface.” A middle-aged man, regretting that he didn’t exercise more. His son teasing him for being out of shape.

If it sounds like so many conversations you’ve overheard in the farmer’s market or the subway, well, that’s probably intentional. Cleve’s story is a family story. It’s also about what happens when the father and son get to the roof. And why they’re taking the stairs. So starting in the stairwell, at the 11th floor, with a family moment, is the right approach, in the right place. It works.

In her essay “The Heart Is a Torn Muscle,” here’s Randon Billings Noble’s lede:

Overview

     Your heart was already full, but then you saw him and your heart

     beat code, not Morse but a more insistent pulse. Oh yes.That’s him.

     That one.

“Overview” indicates this is a hermit crab essay mimicking a Web M.D. entry. Then, the first sentence mimics a racing heart; the last three sentences mimic a regular heartbeat. Read it aloud. You’ll hear it. It’s the right lede, for that story.

Listen, Dalia and I aren’t coming out against Grabber Ledes/Big Hook Openings. I love that lede of Cheryl Strayed’s. I would never suggest Kafka open Metamorphosis in any other way.

I’m just saying, don’t reach for the Big Drama, if it doesn’t suit your story. Not every story should open the same. And you’re not the same as any other writer. When the right lede comes along, be open to it.

Kelly Caldwell

Dean of Faculty

There are a few bits of common writing advice that writers, editors, and teachers like me say so frequently and with such certainty, they become canon. They aren’t suggestions so much as they’re laws.

We forget that if writers adhere to them too closely, they can do more harm than good.

I had to re-examine one of them recently after my former student Atash Yaghmaian visited my class to talk about her book My Name Means Fire, coming out from Beacon Press this October.

The aphorism we’re revisiting? “Kill your darlings.”

“Do you ever write something and then you’re like, “Oh, this is shit,” and then you rip it up?” Atash asked. “Please don’t do that.”

“Keep it. Just keep it. Because it’s a part of you who’s expressing yourself. Keep it.”

“Kill your darlings” isn’t exactly wrong—eventually, every writer has to cut chunks out of their stories. If we didn’t, every story would be 5,000 pages long.

The problem is that too many writers start cutting too soon. They delete paragraphs, pages, chapters before they know what their story is about.

In Atash’s case, she didn’t so much kill her darlings as she avoided writing them altogether.

“The first five drafts of this book were about this girl running away from Iran, from war, from the Revolution, and making it to America, and that’s my story, but that’s not my story,” Atash said.

It wasn’t her story, because it left out her internal life. It left out how she survived.

She survived by dissociating into a beautiful inner world, one that she called The House of Stone. It was a beautiful place. It was incredibly creative. And it saved her life.

And she still wrote around it. Through five drafts.

“I was terrified,” Atash said. “Even my [therapist] colleagues would talk about people who [dissociate] as though we are freaks. So, I hid it. When you would read my book, you would just read this happened, then that happened, and it was engaging, sure, because revolution is engaging. But people kept asking, ‘How did you survive?’”

Once Atash wrote the rest of the story, her interior story, not only did her book get better, but her writing changed.

“I let different parts of me come through the pages and say whatever they needed to say without me deleting them,” Atash said. “Writing taught me to be really accepting of all the different voices I have and the different ways I write. Writing was the gateway to understanding myself.”

Now, when Atash sits down to write, she holds nothing back in her first drafts. It’s “purge, purge, purge” into one huge document; later, she’ll open a new one to stitch together a new story, like a quilt.

“First drafts are all foundations,” she said. “Foundations are not pretty. But we build beautiful castles on them, beautiful books, articles, love notes, essays. We need a good strong foundation, so we all get to say what we need to say.”

The saying “Kill your darlings” is really about editing, about being brave enough to check your ego and do what your story needs you to do, to tell a story that’s true.

But you can’t delete your way to a great story. You have to build it.

Kelly Caldwell

Dean of Faculty