Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Oct 31, 2005 18:48:01 GMT 1
The Value of Ranting
The rant is essentially a self-indulgent, personal exercise intended to get the writer’s negative feelings and emotions out onto the page. There, when looked at objectively and perhaps with hindsight, it provides the writer with a valuable, therapeutic resource for personal growth and awareness, besides potential material for future projects.
A writer may choose to expose their rant to other group members or a wider readership, in which case perhaps append a few comments, as in the example below. Much would depend upon the rant’s contents, but think twice before exposing your original versions. You may be showing your readers far more of your self than you might realise or wish. Self-pity; anger (justified or not); arrogance; contempt; prejudice etc., are all rooted in personal fear and insecurity, and have a habit of escaping onto the page in this type of exercise. Let them - but be sure to recognise them when they are there.
If attempting this as an exercise, the best way to approach it is to rattle it straight out onto the page, and without thinking, as if speaking aloud. Don’t worry about spelling, grammar, content or structure. You can address those things later, and if you decide to take your rant further.
To a degree in the example of a rant below, and besides letting their negative feelings out, the writer shows their level of self-awareness and honesty by attempting to understand and take responsibility for some aspects of the issues raised.
SOME MOTHERS…
I am grounded! Grounded until I learn to behave.
What have I done? Well, I haven’t stolen anything – except Mom’s peace of mind. Neither have I murdered or assaulted anyone – unless with honesty – nor accidentally (on purpose) lost Mom during a shopping trip. Not this time, anyway. I haven’t stayed out late without permission or been caught kissing my boyfriend in the barn – yet; and neither have I been bossy towards, or threatened to kill, my little brother recently. I stay out of his way just in case temptation proves impossible to resist since getting the blame when he scoffed a whole cheesecake that Mom had in the fridge.
I haven’t jumped my pony over the locked field gate and gone off riding up on the mountain alone; or poured a bottle of Gran’s home-made wine into his feed to see if he’d jump higher or race faster on it – not for over three years now. And I gave up brewing hooch in the pigsty when a bottle blew up in my twin brother’s hands and I was scared he’d bleed to death.
My room is tidy. The bed is made. My chores are done and so is my homework. Some parents might almost think I’m a paragon of virtue, so what is the problem? You might well ask. The problem (according to Mom) is me. I am a problem child.
In an effort to cease being one, I decided to record in my writer’s notebook all the things I’m told I am and that combine to make me such a problem. To list them and then to see if I can rectify these apparently life threatening deficiencies. I thought that seemed quite a sensible thing to do.
What was not sensible was to leave that notebook sticking out of the back pocket of my jeans. Not when that same delinquent, cheesecake nicking, little brother (who is considered to be normal and therefore not a problem) has got it in for me because I refused to let him play stupid games on my computer. (Which makes me a horrible, mean, sick bitch, sad ass, ad infinitum – and anyway he’s got his own computer.)
You’ve got it. That angelic little innocent filched my writer’s notebook and went running off to Mom with it, hence I’m grounded for being all those terrible things written in that book. Well, okay, and because of a whole heap more things noted therein which I’d call astute observations about various people who had better remain anonymous.
Those latter, of course, prove beyond any trace of doubt that I am everything negative Mom has ever claimed me to be since my conception, therefore I’ve proven her right all the time! (Come on now, how can she be certain it wasn’t my twin brother pretending her ribs were a glockenspiel and practising a Berserker’s battle march on them with his feet?)
But do I want to change? In some ways yes, most no. On the whole I’m really quite content to be me, although I can understand some of the points adults make about me and am willing to concede to those. Aware that sometimes I’m so full of energy and enthusiasm, so bursting at the seams with questions and the sheer joy of being alive that, to the more sedate members of society, I must appear equivalent to a whirlwind entering their lives. I understand how the force of my personality might prove overpowering or disruptive, but I can be quiet, too and love to sit and discuss deep things. The kind that really challenge my mind and make me plumb its depths, explore its crannies. The trouble is, I can’t always do that at a lazy, meandering pace. Often the mental brakes fail completely and formula one neurones charge through the circuits as if attempting to decimate the brain speed record. It is hell then.
Nothing can keep up with that speed. Brain bytes become overloaded and crash into each other as the whole system fails. Co-ordination goes haywire. Clear speech becomes impossible because my tongue can’t get out of the way of my teeth in time – and anyway, everything’s tumbling out like a garbled splutter flecked with blood where I’ve bitten my tongue in the effort to draw in precious oxygen. Go on, try it now. (That’s a hint for a deep breath, okay?) As for writing – typing’s faster but my fingers still can’t keep up with the messages from my brain and miss great chunks from the text that naturally my eyes don’t recognise because they’re also leaping ahead and trying to overtake the nuclear power of the thought molecules which usually hurtle to self-destruction because nothing else can manage to out pace and entirely capture them in time to effect any satisfactory emergency rescue procedure. (Well, I did warn you to breathe!) Alas, I have to send in the salvage team to sift through the flotsam, by which time the precious jewels have been reduced to little more than atoms and sunk without trace into the rest of the brain sump sludge.
The whole process wears me out so I do understand how it must affect others. Honestly I do. I just don’t always realise it at the time it’s happening. Don’t forget that is when I’m in the middle of a brainstorm. Others are only on its peripherals!
No, I am not just making excuses to try to get out of being grounded. I am trying to explain. Trying to communicate.
‘Hello, Planet Parent. Are you receiving me? Over.’ (Yes, I’m convinced some parents are operated from another planet!)
Trying? Sent to try you?
Yes, I am trying. That’s what I am trying to tell you! It’s no good just saying that I try your patience and tolerance, or that I test your strength. That is ridiculous. I know you are physically stronger than I am! (I’m not that stupid.) Is that what this is all about and you’re trying to discover who is the stronger person?
Oh, but I need to scream sometimes,
Release pent up frustration.
I don’t want a fight, or battle of wills,
But need communication!
I’ve tried all kinds of ways to get that, believe me, but may as well resign myself and accept things as they are – i.e. I’m grounded until old enough to get a job and leave home. Make a life for myself. It’s a bit like a prison sentence and with an uncompromising jailer.
I didn’t have a defence attorney at my trial. The prosecutor was also judge and jury and has effectively sentenced me to seven to nine years with not much chance of parole. (Talk about playing God.)
It will cost her. Mom and I are very alike and in a multitude of ways. Without realising it she teaches me a lot – and I can be quick to learn. If she really wants a power struggle, I’ll give her one, but not on her terms – on mine. What’s more, I’ll take no prisoners, not even myself. And neither shall I go running to Dad to back me up. This isn’t his fight.
~ ~ ~
Author’s Note:
Some Mothers was written a few months before my ninth birthday and when resentment, frustration and self-pity got the better of me. I felt very hard done by. Deciding that life really was most unfair. By then I’d decided that I wished to become a writer and, impatient to get on with the job, was well into the habit of filling a few journal pages on a daily basis. If nothing else, writing pieces like this helped me to get my negative feelings out into the open where I could begin to view them with more objectivity.
© TRPD Therapy Writers’ Group - Arianne - 1997
The rant is essentially a self-indulgent, personal exercise intended to get the writer’s negative feelings and emotions out onto the page. There, when looked at objectively and perhaps with hindsight, it provides the writer with a valuable, therapeutic resource for personal growth and awareness, besides potential material for future projects.
A writer may choose to expose their rant to other group members or a wider readership, in which case perhaps append a few comments, as in the example below. Much would depend upon the rant’s contents, but think twice before exposing your original versions. You may be showing your readers far more of your self than you might realise or wish. Self-pity; anger (justified or not); arrogance; contempt; prejudice etc., are all rooted in personal fear and insecurity, and have a habit of escaping onto the page in this type of exercise. Let them - but be sure to recognise them when they are there.
If attempting this as an exercise, the best way to approach it is to rattle it straight out onto the page, and without thinking, as if speaking aloud. Don’t worry about spelling, grammar, content or structure. You can address those things later, and if you decide to take your rant further.
To a degree in the example of a rant below, and besides letting their negative feelings out, the writer shows their level of self-awareness and honesty by attempting to understand and take responsibility for some aspects of the issues raised.
SOME MOTHERS…
I am grounded! Grounded until I learn to behave.
What have I done? Well, I haven’t stolen anything – except Mom’s peace of mind. Neither have I murdered or assaulted anyone – unless with honesty – nor accidentally (on purpose) lost Mom during a shopping trip. Not this time, anyway. I haven’t stayed out late without permission or been caught kissing my boyfriend in the barn – yet; and neither have I been bossy towards, or threatened to kill, my little brother recently. I stay out of his way just in case temptation proves impossible to resist since getting the blame when he scoffed a whole cheesecake that Mom had in the fridge.
I haven’t jumped my pony over the locked field gate and gone off riding up on the mountain alone; or poured a bottle of Gran’s home-made wine into his feed to see if he’d jump higher or race faster on it – not for over three years now. And I gave up brewing hooch in the pigsty when a bottle blew up in my twin brother’s hands and I was scared he’d bleed to death.
My room is tidy. The bed is made. My chores are done and so is my homework. Some parents might almost think I’m a paragon of virtue, so what is the problem? You might well ask. The problem (according to Mom) is me. I am a problem child.
In an effort to cease being one, I decided to record in my writer’s notebook all the things I’m told I am and that combine to make me such a problem. To list them and then to see if I can rectify these apparently life threatening deficiencies. I thought that seemed quite a sensible thing to do.
What was not sensible was to leave that notebook sticking out of the back pocket of my jeans. Not when that same delinquent, cheesecake nicking, little brother (who is considered to be normal and therefore not a problem) has got it in for me because I refused to let him play stupid games on my computer. (Which makes me a horrible, mean, sick bitch, sad ass, ad infinitum – and anyway he’s got his own computer.)
You’ve got it. That angelic little innocent filched my writer’s notebook and went running off to Mom with it, hence I’m grounded for being all those terrible things written in that book. Well, okay, and because of a whole heap more things noted therein which I’d call astute observations about various people who had better remain anonymous.
Those latter, of course, prove beyond any trace of doubt that I am everything negative Mom has ever claimed me to be since my conception, therefore I’ve proven her right all the time! (Come on now, how can she be certain it wasn’t my twin brother pretending her ribs were a glockenspiel and practising a Berserker’s battle march on them with his feet?)
But do I want to change? In some ways yes, most no. On the whole I’m really quite content to be me, although I can understand some of the points adults make about me and am willing to concede to those. Aware that sometimes I’m so full of energy and enthusiasm, so bursting at the seams with questions and the sheer joy of being alive that, to the more sedate members of society, I must appear equivalent to a whirlwind entering their lives. I understand how the force of my personality might prove overpowering or disruptive, but I can be quiet, too and love to sit and discuss deep things. The kind that really challenge my mind and make me plumb its depths, explore its crannies. The trouble is, I can’t always do that at a lazy, meandering pace. Often the mental brakes fail completely and formula one neurones charge through the circuits as if attempting to decimate the brain speed record. It is hell then.
Nothing can keep up with that speed. Brain bytes become overloaded and crash into each other as the whole system fails. Co-ordination goes haywire. Clear speech becomes impossible because my tongue can’t get out of the way of my teeth in time – and anyway, everything’s tumbling out like a garbled splutter flecked with blood where I’ve bitten my tongue in the effort to draw in precious oxygen. Go on, try it now. (That’s a hint for a deep breath, okay?) As for writing – typing’s faster but my fingers still can’t keep up with the messages from my brain and miss great chunks from the text that naturally my eyes don’t recognise because they’re also leaping ahead and trying to overtake the nuclear power of the thought molecules which usually hurtle to self-destruction because nothing else can manage to out pace and entirely capture them in time to effect any satisfactory emergency rescue procedure. (Well, I did warn you to breathe!) Alas, I have to send in the salvage team to sift through the flotsam, by which time the precious jewels have been reduced to little more than atoms and sunk without trace into the rest of the brain sump sludge.
The whole process wears me out so I do understand how it must affect others. Honestly I do. I just don’t always realise it at the time it’s happening. Don’t forget that is when I’m in the middle of a brainstorm. Others are only on its peripherals!
No, I am not just making excuses to try to get out of being grounded. I am trying to explain. Trying to communicate.
‘Hello, Planet Parent. Are you receiving me? Over.’ (Yes, I’m convinced some parents are operated from another planet!)
Trying? Sent to try you?
Yes, I am trying. That’s what I am trying to tell you! It’s no good just saying that I try your patience and tolerance, or that I test your strength. That is ridiculous. I know you are physically stronger than I am! (I’m not that stupid.) Is that what this is all about and you’re trying to discover who is the stronger person?
Oh, but I need to scream sometimes,
Release pent up frustration.
I don’t want a fight, or battle of wills,
But need communication!
I’ve tried all kinds of ways to get that, believe me, but may as well resign myself and accept things as they are – i.e. I’m grounded until old enough to get a job and leave home. Make a life for myself. It’s a bit like a prison sentence and with an uncompromising jailer.
I didn’t have a defence attorney at my trial. The prosecutor was also judge and jury and has effectively sentenced me to seven to nine years with not much chance of parole. (Talk about playing God.)
It will cost her. Mom and I are very alike and in a multitude of ways. Without realising it she teaches me a lot – and I can be quick to learn. If she really wants a power struggle, I’ll give her one, but not on her terms – on mine. What’s more, I’ll take no prisoners, not even myself. And neither shall I go running to Dad to back me up. This isn’t his fight.
~ ~ ~
Author’s Note:
Some Mothers was written a few months before my ninth birthday and when resentment, frustration and self-pity got the better of me. I felt very hard done by. Deciding that life really was most unfair. By then I’d decided that I wished to become a writer and, impatient to get on with the job, was well into the habit of filling a few journal pages on a daily basis. If nothing else, writing pieces like this helped me to get my negative feelings out into the open where I could begin to view them with more objectivity.
© TRPD Therapy Writers’ Group - Arianne - 1997