Inspiration from a Weird Little White Dude

I remember Truman Capote from the Dinah Shore Show. Or was it Merv Griffin? I think everyone my age remembers those shows as after-school annoyances that took up valuable TV time that could have been better used by Gilligan's Island or Star Trek or Big Valley. Anyway, even at the tender age of five or six, I found Truman Capote irritating. On some level I knew he was gay -- even before I knew what gay really meant -- and because I was taunted and tormented on a daily basis for being a fairy, both at school and at home, all I knew was that I didn't want to become that.

That aversion has continued into adulthood. I saw Capote against my will. The thought of listening to that voice for nearly three hours was more than I could endure. Still, at the end of it I was at least impressed with Phillip Seymour Hoffman's skill, if nothing else. I've read Breakfast at Tiffany's and wasn't particularly entranced. So imagine the thrill of being assigned three of his pieces for class.

I've actually read "Music for Chameleons" before, and again I just have the sense that I'm missing something. Arguably it's well written, but when I finished the piece I felt as if I'd just wasted twenty minutes.

However, Capote's preface to this collection of essays may just have been exactly what I needed to read at exactly the moment I needed to read it.

In addition to Capote, we've been assigned other essays for class discussion. The one I'd finished prior to reading Capote was "Three Spheres" by Lauren Slater. In it she describes returning as a psychiatrist to a mental facility where she'd spent most of her youth as a patient. It's all about maintaining personal power and not succumbing to old fears. (See previous post.) When I finished that piece I smiled and nodded to myself.

Then I read Capote's preface. There is just no other way to say this: Capote was a weird little white dude. His power came from the fact that he knew and went on about his life, pretending at least not to care how the world perceived him. What else could he do?

However, one of the reasons I've been less than enthusiastic about Capote as a writer was I always thought he was sloppy. This is an unfair judgement since I haven't read In Cold Blood, but it has always seemed to me that a nonfiction novel was somehow cheating. As usually happens when I make a predjudiced stance such as that I will probably very reluctantly pick up the book and discover that my life is changed forever. But for now I'm still not a fan of Capote's writing.

What struck me about the preface was how Capote described his writing process. There is no questioning his intellect. I'm reserving judgement on his talent. But he described the dilligence with which he approached his art, and hints at his own feelings of inadequacy for living up to his standards of greatness.

And when I read that I was ashamed. I'm finishing a writing program, and I cannot get myself to do any actual writing. I have potential, but I'm afraid of trying to cultivate it. What if my fully realized potential still indicates a mediocre talent? If I do nothing, at least I don't have to face a reality of mediocrity.

And while my work situation confronts me with some old personal demons, that war really was won several years ago and I think I'm falling back on those insecurities in order to avoid facing new personal challenges, namely moving forward with my writing and into the next program. Those distractions are convenient, familiar patterns that do not need to be re-established.

If Truman Capote could come to grips with being a weired white dude and still produce respected work, there is absolutely no reason I can't.

Resolution: My day job is not my personal definition.