I must be an emotional archaeologist, because I keep looking for the roots of things, particularly the roots of behaviour, and why I feel certain ways about certain things.

Fred Rogers, Monday, October 19, 1987, at 2 in the afternoon, sitting on his piano bench in his apartment on Ellsworth Avenue in Pittsburgh.

We aren't usually able to pin down a quote with that kind of precision, especially not on the internet ('Who loves ya, baby?' Abraham Lincoln, 1860). But the journalist who conducted the interview knew exactly when, where, and from whom he heard those words, and let us in on it. We're grateful.

What Fred Rogers said, as a way of explaining why he was telling the specific incidents in his life that he was, struck me as something you might want to hear. I'm in favour of this emotional archaeology business. It's a very good thing for us to consider doing.

Mr Rogers identified certain incidents in his life as being useful to him because they showed him things about human behaviour. He noticed when people behaved unfairly or unkindly. He noted how it made him feel to be on the receiving end of this or that injustice or act of unkindness. He thought about how to react in a way that would be most constructive. He let these insights guide his future behaviour.

We can also let these insights inform our own writing.

Motivation

The Spirit signed to him to listen to the two apprentices, who were pouring out their hearts in praise of Fezziwig: and when he had done so, said,


'Why! Is it not? He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?'


'It isn’t that,' said Scrooge, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. 'It isn't that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.'

That isn't the greatest piece of writing in the world. Frankly, some of the prose is inelegant. But in A Christmas Carol, Dickens (himself a far from perfect human being) does more than advocate paternalistic generosity. He draws on his own observations of human behaviour and human need to paint us a picture of what might be. It was a pretty accurate picture, judging by the effect that book had on people. Why, I'll bet people who are yelling all year about how the poor are just taking advantage of the government's social programmes, and eyeing their neighbours with suspicion and assessing their right to belong, even those people will sheepishly indulge in a tiny bit of charity this winter – if not in the name anything they hold transcendent or holy, then out of a sense that Dickens' ideas are, after all, a tradition…

Dickens used some emotional archaeology to dig up that story. If he could do it, so can you.

Empathy

Eleanor Vance was thirty-two years old when she came to Hill House. The only person in the world she genuinely hated, now that her mother was dead, was her sister. She disliked her brother-in-law and her five-year-old niece, and she had no friends. This was owing largely to the eleven years she had spent caring for her invalid mother, which had left her with some proficiency as a nurse and an inability to face strong sunlight without blinking. She could not remember ever being truly happy in her adult life; her years with her mother had been built up devotedly around small guilts and small reproaches, constant weariness, and unending despair. Without ever wanting to become reserved and shy, she had spent so long alone, with no one to love, that it was difficult for her to talk, even casually, to another person without self-consciousness and an awkward inability to find words.

Shirley Jackson,The Haunting of Hill House

Shirley Jackson's writing is almost nothing but empathy – at least, when she isn't writing about herself. I don't recommend Life Among the Savages. It's not as funny as her contemporaries seem to think it was. The house in Shirley Jackson's memoir strikes me as uncomfortably close to Hill House, no matter how much the writer tried to yuck it up. Even a cursory reading of Jackson's autobiographical details will give you a clue as to where she got her emotional archaeology from. She didn't have to dig very deep. Check her out on W*k*p*d** and see if you don't have the urge to punch her family in the collective nose.

Shirley Jackson used her emotional backlog to build reader empathy for her characters. You may never have known anyone like Eleanor Vance. You may be impatient of women like Eleanor Vance because you haven't been where they've been. But Shirley Jackson will help you care, if you let her.

Clarity

What happens when a character in story reaches a decision on the basis of their understanding of the circumstances? They experience a moment of clarity. As readers, we may not agree with the character's moment of clarity, but we recognise it.

'Since then I've often thought about that decision of mine, sir. I'm now convinced I couldn't have done anything else. I took the only line of conduct possible. It was really the only proper action I could have taken.'

'The only proper action,' Colonel Green agreed.

Pierre Boulle, The Bridge Over the River Kwai

(Read that book sometime. If you've seen the movie – and you have – it will surprise the heck out of you.)

Characters who reach their moments of clarity help us to gain perspective. Before the writer could help the character find that clarity, though, the writer had to do some emotional archaeology to find true moments of clarity on a personal level.

Your own emotional memory is not only a precious personal possession. It is also, if you care to use it that way, a rich personal store of insights into the human experience.

Writing Right with Dmitri Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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