My Cathartic Writer's Voice Development

[Kyle Desmond]

My Cathartic Writer’s Voice Development - From Lost, to Found   

As early as age ten, I developed a growing feeling that I did not belong anywhere. As a product of an abusive, highly dysfunctional family, I sought acceptance and a sense of confidence in my own writing and selected reading. This was not enough, however, to save me from the other trappings of being an unsupervised young adult. Children from homes in which emotional or physical abuse between adult partners, parental substance abuse, and/or child abuse or neglect exists, are disproportionately represented among runaway [homeless] youth (Washington Institute for Public Policy, 1997, p. 4).

As a former homeless youth, I recognize that one of the commonalities among those of us growing up in the ’70s, regardless of background, was a constant struggle to define ourselves—or to resist defining ourselves. Like the youth of today, however, we always employed the language of others. Adolescents of the 1970s, have a unique view on individuality and their role in society. The ’70s, though often lampooned in modern media, was a very difficult time to be an adolescent. Not quite a baby boomer and not yet a member of Generation X, we were the forgotten children left over from ’60s idealism and headed toward the repressive ’80s.

I grew up with promiscuity, drug use, and cynicism. Developing any skills that required the least amount of self-discipline, not to mention an identifying language, was difficult at best. “Americans reeling from defeat in Vietnam, Watergate and the Iran hostage crisis essentially lost their faith in the institutions of society, leading to the pervasive cynicism that endures today” (Brotman, 2000, p. 1). Pontell (2005) has dubbed children of the 70s “Generation Jones,” has authored a book on the subject, and maintains a website that explains the lingering repercussions of an era in which the number of women entering the workforce and marijuana use was at an all-time high. “Generation Jones started out optimistic only to see idealistic dreams smashed by the financial hardships of the ’70s. The character of the generation became a mixture of idealistic yearning and cynical alienation” (p. 1). This “pervasive cynicism” and “alienation” combined with the aforementioned psychosocial crisis, created a fertile environment for abuses, trauma and consequentially, a lack of voice, written or otherwise.

I spent a few homeless days wandering the beaches of Southern California in the late ’70s, and spent a couple shaky moments in the back of police cruisers. I am fairly certain that there are elements of my misadventures that I have blocked out of my memory. Conversely, I have glamorized elements of this self-inflicted disaffection as a way of turning a horrifying experience into a great story. How was it that I was able to transform my lack of belonging—along with the other aforementioned traps of the marginalized, such as thievery, promiscuity, and drug and alcohol abuse—into voice development? My continued contention is that the modicum of encouragement directed at my writing, and the smallest notion that there was value in my experiences, told me that one day I would have a great need to process it all using my own particular voice.

My early writing was songwriting. I often felt supported by my ability to put lyrics to melody and consequently by people who liked my songs. I was apparently processing some of my trauma on a level that I kept hidden away. One of my first songs, “Call On Me,” although somewhat pedestrian, represents a deep, perhaps subconscious feeling that I was still being controlled by the trauma of my past. It’s a song that reveals both the longing and the promise of a responsible, human connection. Early relationship, vocational and social decisions were often made based on this duality, the recognition that, though I was not whole, I held a deep need to take care of those who were also ill nurtured, to be there at a moment’s notice to care of them. To be relied upon meant reliance and reliance meant a stability that only existed in song.

The first time I knew that my writing could sustain me through difficult times, was after the move from urban Seattle to agrarian Montana. Two English instructors at a miniscule high school of just 400 students had a significant impact on my voice development.

I was fairly certain that Mr. Belder was the only person in the entire state of Montana that actually owned a men’s bicycle with a basket attached to the handlebars. On my first day at Powell County High in 1975, I was wearing a ring on every finger, AngelFlight bell-bottom slacks, polyester, wide-collar shirts, platform shoes, and sporting a David Bowie haircut. To say that I stuck out when I walked into classes full of bull-riders and farmers is an understatement. But Mr. Belder saw me among my peers as someone of great potential in need of a little confidence and encouragement. Within a few weeks of entering his class, I knew I had found someone special as well. One day, he played “Fixing a Hole” from The Beatles’ White Album and asked the class to do a freewrite on what we thought the authors of the lyrics were trying to say. I was in heaven and used this opportunity to let my voice shine a little bit. Mr. Belder eventually asked me to act as a teacher’s aid for his class and eventually allowed me to student-teach on a couple of occasions. This mild-mannered mentor asked for my opinion, valued my learned experiences and believed in my ability to communicate these experiences and abilities using my own language.                                

It is quite miraculous that I was able to find not one, but two highly innovative instructors in a prison-town high school. Ms. Harris was Mr. Belder’s female equivalent, and in every way his opposite. She encouraged me to actively and unabashedly pour out my truest, deepest, darkest secrets and fears in my weekly journal assignments. I came to understand that she expected more from me and we learned that we had a great deal in common. She, too, was from a big city and felt out of place. She helped me create a sense of belonging and a sense of authority in my own words that I had not experienced in any environment—real or imagined. At age fourteen I wrote my first short story and depicted myself as a “sex-drugs and rock-n-roll” suburbanite trapped in a world of western wear and cow pies.

Despite these racier illusions, the thing I remember most about the story is the image of “crunching” across a snowfield away from a secret rendezvous and toward town. I specifically recall describing the sound of my footsteps as crunching across the blank, canvas of snow—an action appropriate to my situation—I was breaking through the brittle shell of who I was toward an unexplored center, in an effort to find better footing. Looking back on it now, this first attempt sounded more like a love-sick confessional; but I have the distinct recollection of re-reading it, refining it and being quite proud upon its completion. Ms. Harris probably would have been mortified by the story, but the gift she gave me was far more than just a bit of license as a novice, lovesick writer. She gave me the ability to find value in my experience above the experience itself, and that beauty and understanding can be found writing about our defining life experiences.

The literature I chose to read during my voice development prior to rejoining academia was eclectic, ranging from science fiction and horror to dramas and autobiographies. I imagined how cool it would be to pee on the floor in the middle of one of my parent’s cocktail parties or puke on a member of the clergy like Regan did in The Exorcist. The truth, however, was that at times I did feel possessed, and that my behavior was secretly controlled by someone or something else. I found it sad and simultaneously liberating to learn that Conrad needed shock therapy and extensive counseling to release the misplaced guilt of his brother’s death in Ordinary People. What would it take to release my guilt? I was Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land and believed that I had mysterious powers over earth people. I longed for the courage, discipline and direction depicted in Chuck Yeager’s autobiography, Yeager. All of these examples—as well as the feelings that accompanied them—affected who I am, my writer’s voice, and the subjects on which I chose to write.

To summarize, my personal development and my cathartic written voice development are inextricably linked to the literature and the caretakers that encouraged my voice to develop. It literally took fourteen years for me to recognize my own authenticity, and grow to a level of self-efficacy that I carry with me today.