Recently, I watched a community theatre production of a popular musical, and while I am not reviewing shows at this time, my critical eye still influenced my thoughts. As I watched these college-age actors perform, I had a realization—one that helped me understand something about writing.
During the show, I kept watching the two actors playing the adults, and they had a presence and poise that I did not see in the others. It was restraint. They understood how to stand still and have their whole bodies exude emotion, and how to let their voices carry the line without going over the top. With the younger actors, I kept thinking, Dial it back. You are trying too hard.
That is when I began to think about my own writing and my developing poetic voice. I keep hearing about restraint—that it separates the hobbyist from the published poet.
Restraint is also what I struggle with the most. I like to be wordy at times, and I like to explain at times. Like the actors on the stage, I tend to try too hard.
I don’t trust the images and the words of the poem to carry the thought and the emotion. Instead of being too loud or relying on unnatural facial expressions, I repeat the same idea, use a general phrase that sums up the thought, use competing metaphors, or explain the theme.
Like an actor’s work onstage, it may come across fine. But to the discerning eye, it will be flawed. My writing could be great for casual readers who are not interested in polished poems and just want to enjoy reading it. (I was going to write like the community theatre audience, but that would be my lack of restraint.)
But I want to be taken seriously by others in the craft. In theatre terms, I want to be onstage at a regional or Broadway theatre, where the professionals play.
If I want to better my craft, I need to work on restraint. Just like the adult actors on the stage, I need to be able to tell my truth in a quiet stillness without exaggeration, without trying too hard.
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