Confession: the act of disclosing one’s faults so as to unburden one’s sins or the state of one’s conscience to God or to a priest.
Confession: a formal statement of religious beliefs
—Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary (the paper kind, believe it or not)
What does it feel like to confess? The moment the words of damnation and freedom vibrate from their vocal chords, does the confessor lie down in defeat? Or does he sit up a little straighter, lighter in the shoulders, finally unburdened from the shame of a hidden secret?
In my imagination, as I confess the sins that separate me from myself (to God or to man), the sun finally breaks through the window and illuminates the stone grey room, piercing the ghosts of ignorance and doubt. There’s an almost biblical moment as my back straightens, my arms — firm with the conviction of this new freedom — rip me from the grasping tentacles of my lies’ shadows. Before I was Jacob Marley, damned to walk forever in a hell of my own making. Now I am Scrooge offered redemption. At least, that’s my imagination. My heart fills when I walk by the confessional, wondering what it would be like to simply participate. But I never have.
When was the last time you unburdened yourself? When was the last time you admitted your inner doubts and questions and struggles? And most brazenly (my palms are sweating simply typing this) when was the last time you admitted that inner drama to another person?
If you’re like me, I would guess the answer is never. For even though I like to imagine biblical freedom, I still fear the power of those words.
You see, for too long I was afraid to voice the truth. I internalized advice like “don’t stand out.” I learned that the wrong words, said at the wrong time and with the wrong intonation, could hurt. Rather than risk a sharp retort, a rap on the knuckles, or a never-ending replay of a scene when I might have hurt someone, I silenced myself. And with every promotion, every recognition, every complement, it became easier to stay silent. The mask worked. Until it didn’t.
*
Alice LaPlante, in “the making of a story” asks if writing can be taught. In the very next line she answers with a resounding “sort of.” Because writing: honest, true, moving writing, is a magical mixture of equal parts craft and madness. And that madness part is fascinating. That madness, that inspiration, comes out of some unknown place deep within us, and then we work with it, we wrestle with it, we play with it until we’ve gotten to what
calls “the center of whatever it is we’re trying to say.”I don’t have a formula for how to develop that madness. If I did, I’d package it into a bestselling book, with success beyond even James Clear’s wildest dreams (if I write it, maybe I’ll call it Subatomic Madness – or Crazy Quarks, I kind of like that)1. But I do know a successful way to keep the inspiration of madness away.
Silence yourself. Hide behind a mask. Like I did.
*
I think the Catholic idea of confession hit on something. Imagine sitting down in solitude, out of view of any person in the darkened enclave of church, connected to the divine. I sit and I start talking, slowly at first, and then quicker until there’s a wave of my deepest doubts and fears reverberating through me. I’m taking the mask off. And not just removing it for a moment, but removing it as a statement of my belief: in God, in Truth, in the power of great storytelling. Because back to the definition of confession, it’s a statement of belief. It’s absolution experienced. I can only imagine what that experience is like, but I think I need it.
I’ve never been to confession (I’m not Catholic), and I haven’t found anything resembling it. Which meant I’m having to recreate it for myself the only way I know how. On the page. And so this is my experiment, my attempt to court the muse of madness.
I am here to write to the best of my ability, to leave everything on the page and create the most honest, moving, powerful writing I can. I spent the last year and a half diving into the craft, but somehow I forgot to remove the damned mask. It’s time to take it off. It’s time to write those things that scare me. My hope is that by writing the things that scare me, they’ll lose their power over me. And once that power is gone, then there will be room for that madness to express itself.
Which is why this series is called Confessions. I’m practicing taking the one inch frame2 and pointing it towards the shadows I hold in my own heart. These are my way of admitting the things that scare me, of writing into them and about them.
Before you read on (and I hope you will), I’d like to leave you with a Henry James quote. Because on the other side of this experiment isn’t fame and fortune and riches. It’s hard work. As James wrote:
“We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
I confess these and all my sins in service of passion. In service of truth.
Confessions
Sorry for the physics nerd jokes. I was a physics undergrad, and sometimes it just comes out before I can censor myself. Given the nature of out discussion, it seems appropriate.
Well said, Latham. A courageous beginning.
Shame and guilt are two millstones we carry throughout our life. In our internal landscape, demons amplify these emotions to create a sense of worthlessness.
To speak these dark secrets to another and have them accept our failings ("sins") unconditionally is THE path to redemption. In this, the Catholic church stands head and shoulders above other religions; a good priest creates a holy space of love and acceptance. Into that space gets poured the darkness, which dissolves in the healing light of love.
A modern analogy might be a therapist. But an intellectual discussion may fail to hit the mark.
My father died one year ago tomorrow. He was a quiet, yet devout Catholic. Tomorrow I will make a confession. I have been returning, slowly, to the church, the original sanctuary of the soul.
Thank you for a thought provoking piece. I look forward to the next one.
This always makes my day to watch someone do this!! 🤩 I’m so excited for you, and to see what you share with us!
I did grow up Catholic and if I’d ever spoken the truth to any of those old men--some crotchety and judgmental, some kind but paternally chastising for things I didn’t feel were wrong but I knew the church would expect me to confess because I was female and therefore the origin of all sin--if I’d spoken what was in my mind and heart, I would have been excommunicated. Because religion lost me when I was 7 when I asked deep, unanswerable questions of adults who were horrified and outraged at my little chirping logic, debate and philosophizing. 🤪
Therefore I muzzled. *Everything.* Northern MN in the 70s as a female neurodivergent artist?! Yeah. Everything. The only way I could express my true self was in writing I never let anyone read, and in dance. Silent. Masked (but not at all). Raw kinetic communication that could be interpreted any number of ways, and denied with a casual smile if interrogated.
Taking the choke chain, muzzle, and gazillion masks off with my old blog 7 years ago was the most terrifying, liberating and exhilarating thing I’ve ever done. It still is, every time I go a level deeper. It’s what I’m migrating here to Substack, as well as all the stories I never got to share, so I’m super excited to see someone else devoted to doing this scary thing. So worth it! And so needed in this selfie, photoshopped, AI generated world. No wonder I always love your writing. Congrats! Can’t wait to watch the unveiling.