The Seven Year Rule - Writer's Edition

Ah yes, more of the seven year rule. I can't seem to get enough of that rule these days.

All of my thinking about the seven year rule has become jumbled. I am very clear on the rule as an actor. As I've stated in previous posts, I have found the seven year rule to be useful when working on a role. Distance from a particular emotional trauma helps me to have control over my choices- it allows me physical freedom and emotional objectivity as I piece a character's life together. However, things get a little murky when I consider the seven year rule as it pertains to my writing.

Should the seven year rule apply to my writing as well? Granted, writing is a private activity and I can prune and edit for as long as I wish (usually not very long at all- I'm not the most patient writer.) and it is okay if I hit a sore spot and cry myself drier than the Mojave. I can always come back to it and no one would be any the wiser. Or would they?

One of my biggest concerns is self-indulgence. Self-indulgence can color an artist's ability to effectively communicate ideas. When a story becomes more about eliciting an emotional response than it is about challenging assumptions and asking hard questions then the story itself becomes a masturbatory exercise. Emotional responses do not make great stories. How many people have you ever seen choke up at the mention of Sophie's Choice only to admit that it was "just okay"? The manipulation of circumstances brings about an overwhelming amount of emotion, but if there are no insights, no questions, no challenges, we learn nothing from the experience beyond "wow, that made me sad". So, is it possible to challenge yourself as a writer to write something immediate to your experience without drowning in it? Or is that simply journaling for the public?

There is something quite valuable in journals. I just wonder if they should be for public consumption. Distance and time do allow for humor to develop, and within that humor comes palatable insight. By that, I mean that humor is one of the most effective ways to communicate difficult ideas. Humor disarms the reader/ viewer and difficult messages can often sneak in and burrow themselves into the audience member's subconscious- allowing them to take in something that may have been too offensive or too painful were it delivered in a more "serious" fashion. My favorite example of this is that Huckleberry Finn was written in Connecticut. Time and distance allow us to see what is universal and what is idiosyncratic about the characters, the time, and the place about which we are writing. This is the beginning of insight, meaning and purpose.

But what about immediacy? What about chronicling the experience in real time? Can there be insight in that? Or should the insight be allowed to deepen and mellow in complexity like a fine wine? How can we tell the difference? How do we know when is the right time to write what?

A friend of mine recently suggested that I write about pregnancy. He had complimented my "glow" and I brushed off the compliment with a cynical remark about how the "glow" was simply a by-product of my body's elevated blood levels and nothing to get too excited about as if it were a reflection of my good taste and fine upbringing. He laughed and told me that other people would find my thoughts on pregnancy entertaining. To be honest, I have been thinking about writing about pregnancy and motherhood for years. Although the perspective I would want to explore would be more about how my parents' influences, their generation, my mother's illness, and my life experiences have made me into the wife/mother/daughter that I am- or more specifically- think that I am. I have a lot of questions about the patterns I've avoided and the patterns I've continued in my life and I believe there is a fictional counterpart to me that could make a compelling character. But when will my writing about that be most effective? Now when I'm in the thick of the experience? Or later when I won't be so invested in taking myself so seriously? Or- would it just be a good exercise for me to write with the intent of keeping my eyes open to my own absurdity?

I have known writers who can do that, and do that quite effectively. Most notably, my good friend Joseph Scrimshaw has made a career of writing in the immediate. His work is riddled with questions about his current struggles in life and art. He just happens to be extraordinarily witty- so you might miss the deeper questions he asks of himself while your beer comes out your nose. (Oh, and there IS beer. There is ALWAYS beer...) That's okay. I think those questions then burrow into your brain like a horrible parasite and then resurface later. I'd be satisfied with that, but I don't quite trust myself to be able to pull that off.

While I am confident in my knowledge and understanding of the application of the seven year rule as an actor- I am not so sure about how to use it as a writer. The only way for me to really tell is to test it.

Over and over and over again.

The Seven Year Rule Revisted

The Seven Year Rule is complicated.

As I've stated in my previous post, there is some definite method to the madness. By violating the rule an actor risks losing control of her choices becoming a slave to her own emotions and disregarding the given circumstances of the text. We've all seen it happen in black boxes across the country. I once saw a perplexing production of Country Girl in which an actor completely disappeared into himself while staring at his own outstretched hand and slowly sinking to the floor while the action continued around him. It was terribly distracting for me as an audience member because I just could not comprehend the relevance of his choice to the play. His "moment" was so all consuming for him that he created a black hole on the stage and I missed a good 10 minutes of the play because of it. His company members were obliged to bring him back from the brink so that he could say his next line. They did it with great difficulty.

I have no idea what that actor was "using" in that moment and I can only speculate that he was violating the Rule. However, the nature of his distraction was not unfamiliar to me. Self-indulgence and self-fascination are telltale signs of an actor using something "hot" as an emotional propellant. Although one can never quite tell if it is the violation of the Rule or just a selfish actor.

The Rule, however, does not preclude us from using immediate emotional stimulus. On the contrary. One should never suppress what is bubbling up from your daily interactions. For example, during a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in which I was playing Helena, I found myself laboring under intense, self-inflicted pressure. I believed that the director thought I was a moron. My mother was coming out to see the production and she had not seen me perform in almost 10 years. I felt woefully inadequate and unlovable. I spent most of my time backstage crying my eyes out but once I hit the stage I did my best to cover up my shame and perceived sense of immediate rejection. My cast mates were always waiting in the wings with quizzical looks on their faces. Why aren't you just letting it go? You are so Helena right now. Get on that stage and use Shakespeare to express your self-pity! It wasn't until the dreaded performance in front of my mother was over that I let myself experience onstage what I was experiencing behind the scenes. My work took off and Helena and I were finally one. I did not spend the performance weeping- the tears I had shed were merely a manifestation of blocked energy from a denial of key circumstances in the text. When I let myself feel what I was experiencing in the moment and gave myself over to it I found Helena's humanity- and my own.

The Immediate must never be ignored but your system's ability to handle past traumas should always be respected. This profession can be emotionally treacherous and one must be careful not to prostitute themselves through their art. Some things are private and should remain so in order for the actor to do his work safely.