Honesty and Emotional Excess in Writing

\”Gushy?” I say, and stare at him. “You thought I was being gushy?\”

\”Only at first. But then I changed my mind.\”
\”So what changed it?\”
\”You read me the rest of the note.\”
I take a deep breath. \”So let me get this straight. For the first two sentences, you thought I was gushy. Then you changed your mind. But there was still a moment, a fleeting moment, where you thought, \’She is being gushy.\’\”
\”Just at first.\”
I let this sink in.“That bothers me.\”
“Why?\”
“Well, I\’m not sure what \”gushy\” means to you, but I think of it as flattering someone excessively and insincerely to manipulate. Gushing is not a flaw I take lightly. It violates my personal… um…\” I start to say \”Decalogue,\” but he interrupts.
\”Law book?\” he says.
\”Yes. Law book.\”
\”Well don\’t worry. You weren\’t being gushy at all. You were just trying to thank him.\”
\”That was all. I just wanted to let him know I wasn\’t taking it for granted, what he had done.\”

A long silence follows. I want to argue, to defend my honor, but how can I, when he has already retracted his criticism?

And yet, the word “gushy” lingers uncomfortably in my mind. The label goes to the heart of what makes writing thank you notes – or anything else – so difficult. Even if you make every effort to be honest, there is always the chance you will go too far, or be misinterpreted.

For a writer, or any artist, honesty is paramount; not just factual honesty, but emotional honesty. Otherwise, there is no point.

And yet, for almost every genuine emotion there is a tawdry version, a tipping point into excess. Gratitude teeters toward gushing. Anger tips into pettiness. Drama leans toward melodrama. Confidence explodes into arrogance. Where the boundary is between the honest emotion and its dark doppelganger is often unclear.

The task of defining it often falls to critics. I have read critical reviews that accuse an author of being preachy, when the author probably thought he was exhibiting great moral courage. Or “sentimental,” in a case of a writer trying to be emotionally powerful.

Often these criticisms are true, because striking the right emotional balance is always difficult and takes skill.

However, these critiques often end up seeming personal, a summing up of character flaws that can make writing feel extremely risky – an activity in which moral failings threaten to drip from every sentence. I wonder if Mark Twain was only talking about grammar when he said that if people learned to talk the way they learned to write, everyone would stutter.

Writing instructors say to always be honest, as if that were an easy thing. As if words always allowed for it. As if they did not mean different things to different people. As if you could never go too far.

Because success in expressing emotion is often a matter of degree, there always seems to be a grain of truth in diagnosing sentimentality where the writer is trying to convey love; or mawkishness where genuine sadness is meant; or “gushing” in place of gratitude.

Soul-searching follows. Perhaps in my attempt to thank someone, I really did go too far, had strayed to the unsafe edge of the emotional distortion field. Perhaps, for a nanosecond, some hidden facet of my personality had flashed, and yielded a two sentence verbal photograph of some creepy subconscious trait.

If so, I wonder how I might have moved back into a place of balance and restraint. Perhaps I should have toned down my gratitude. I consider my options: \”Thanks, but next time, apply yourself!\” or \”I appreciate your efforts, sort of.\” or \”I am very grateful, but I think that you should comb your hair.\”

“What are you thinking about so hard?” His voice shakes me out of my reverie.

“Gushy.”

“Are you still thinking about that?

“Maybe.”

“Well, you can let it go.”

I remain silent.

“Stop that. You weren\’t being gushy. Not gushy at all. I get that now.”