By Cordelia Fitzgerald (Rated G)
Writing is really such a vulnerable sport! Up until the advent of records, a passing, but regrettable, utterance from an unfortunate individual would probably be forgotten. Alternatively, it could be passed from mouth to mouth, but would probably die out within a generation or two. Enter writing. This technological advancement guaranteed the near immortality of recorded words, at least until more flammable substances began replacing varying types of stone as scratch pads. Even with parchment and scrolls and paper, however, an author’s words, once written, were preserved for the life of that document, which was likely to be longer than that of its maker.
So words, once written, are not easily forgotten. That constitutes a certain type of vulnerability: to lose ownership of thoughts, as it were, and relinquish them to the world, and to the world to come, and its ridicule or praise. This openness it shares with many creative endeavors, as painting and writing and building houses all present a personal product that can and will face critique. Yet, writing goes deeper.
Some of the creepiest science fiction stories involve invasion of the mind through hypnosis, thought-reading devices, possession, and other tactics. This bothers us so because the mind is the last retreat of privacy, the one place left when the outdoors has avid hikers or security cameras or that frog with the oddly human eyes, when our homes are full of family and friends and not ours but the mortgage company’s, when our personal space is invaded by the toddler with no sense of propriety, and when our bodies have been invaded by disease, no matter what defenses we erect.
This privacy of the mind is surrendered, in a sense, when thoughts hit paper. Suddenly, the workings of the intellect, the method of thought, and the unique flavor of a person’s imagination joins that creative pile of paintings and structures – but words are more specific, tendering a pass to specific ideologies and perspectives, where inanimate objects meekly wait to be interpreted. The voice of the author is immortalized and in the wide world now, away from the safe and private confines of the mind. And it is out forever.
One has only to think of the nearest library, however, to observe that this situation has deterred few. Or, at any rate, it has failed to deter many. Among other reasons for this is the necessity of a society to be vulnerable in the interest of its continuance. Think of a lion that, playing with its cubs, allows itself to be bitten and pretends to be vanquished, simply to sharpen their instincts. The first fisherman to suggest that “rotting” could take the place of most of the salt in fish preservation exhibited a degree of vulnerability not to be imagined, yet many people were probably saved from starvation by the implementation of this practice in the face of salt scarcity. (Look up surströmming. Or don’t.) Openness to showing weakness, real or perceived, is vital for the interreliance of mankind, and up until recently, we seemed to be doing a decent job of it.
Of the few examples available today, I think of Matt Fradd, having recently watched a Pints with Aquinas episode. He hosts many guests on this podcast, and is a seeker of the good, the true, and the beautiful. Moreover, he’s Australian. Yet, rather than relying on these merits, he many times shows vulnerability in such a way as inspires trust. He doesn’t publish pre-meditated writings to be sucked into the internet vortex forever, but instead records (it would seem) fairly spontaneous musings with his guests. And the guests he hosts are ones most would be careful of saying two words to, due to their distinguished backgrounds, yet he does not back down when he disagrees, bearding the lion on its own turf and often taking the position of devil’s advocate to fully flesh out the wisdom the guests have to share. And this wisdom is diverse: theology, philosophy, literature, science, and each individual’s own perspective on life. Each time, he says what needs to be said to encourage, clarify, counterpoint, or seek his guest’s discussion.
Additionally, Matt Fradd, like any producer of content, ancient or modern, has produced material that documents the journey of learning that all creators experience. Often, first books are not as well-written as subsequent ones, and an author’s perspective might change, even drastically, throughout the course of his life. This is vulnerability yet again, for not only does writing (or filming) content record a path to maturity, it also requires the author to take ownership of all the material, early and recent. This could look like a learned professor acknowledging and refuting mistakes in earlier works or a writer simply hating the style he used to employ, and wishing no one would ever read it again. Or, perhaps, the contemporary work that was just released yesterday is objectionable.
And yet, numerous authors continue to immortalize their words on paper, computers, and the internet, and it is good that it is so. That idea of openness of the heart leading to the greater good for society still applies; for when there exists a proliferation of and easy access to data, information fatigue sets in. This is where having access to the intellect of another can remedy some parts of an egocentric* system, bogged down by the thirty-eight different ways to peel a potato. For when a mind is stuffed with facts, it forgets that it can do something with them, and that while many people may have access to those very same facts, they will implement the same data in drastically different ways.
In this way, the intellect of a fellow human being will drag the mind from its rut and force it to expand to see the vast beauty of the universe. When one thinker exposes his mind to the critique of the world, he is enabling his fellow men to take one more step from the isolationism that kills society. Put another way, vulnerability is what forms the relationships that are the bedrock of society, as true relationship is built on weaknesses rather than strengths, else it would fail the moment the strength was found to have failed. When two souls can look at each other and say, “I, too, have failed, but we will fight through this together,” they are already ages ahead of a couple who pin their relationship on the (fallible) strength of the other. True friendship can weather the storms of emotions, ailments, and adversity.
This quality is shared with written material. Writing will never be perfect, but it will always be there in its weaknesses and strengths for those who care to seek it out. Austen, Dostoyevsky, Ransome, and Sayers will always be waiting to befriend their next readers, but only because they chose the vulnerable option of pouring forth their souls into their writing. This generation owes so much to the vast congregation of long-dead authors, from Aristotle to Jefferson, de Tocqueville to St. Paul, Moses to Tolkien, Lewis to Shakespeare, and Shaw to Pascal. With such a legacy, how can we, the modern-day writers, fail to show a little vulnerability, too?
After all, that’s where it all starts.
*Egocentrism, due to the less than stellar agreement between definitions, is here defined as the inability or difficulty of understanding another’s perspective, being only able to see the perspective of one’s own self.
LogoSophia Magazine 