Dearest Reader,
I hope this essay finds you well. Or perhaps you’re feeling a little judgy about the way I’m kicking this off with a definition. Because, be honest…what’s more earnest than that? But here we go!
According to my red-covered, yellow-paged source, the New Illustrated Webster’s Dictionary from 1992, eager means “direct in purpose; zealous; fervent.” Zealous. Wow, scary. That’s when enthusiasm goes from bad to worse; Cult-esque, if not a cult already. But, fervent! Fervent sounds friendly. Maybe ferocity burning with a little heat. Passion. Ooh la ha.
Speaking of passion, let’s look at “deep feeling or conviction.” It’s safe to say we’re trained from a young age to view passion as important. Passion is where it’s at! Passion is the path to success (no matter how dryly your guidance counselor champions it). But if your passion tips into earnestness, and you…share real feelings…and sincere artistic effort…and you’re (bless your heart) a grown-up…then EW.
Culturally, being earnest is frowned upon. Even in elementary school, an earnest act in a talent show is a danger zone. If you commit to the bit, you could get crushed. If your heart is in it, your heart might break. If you put weirdness on display, you might be weird. But weird is beautiful.
Still, the word “earnest” is not sexy. It carries the baggage of preconceived notions. If you describe a work of art as earnest, that could be an insult. You might mean humorless. Conceited. Out of touch. Too much. Not cool. Or you might be calling the artist an obnoxious…[insert insult here. I know you’ve got one. The more poetic, the better. Come on, do it in earnest. Feel better?]
All that said, earnestness can be good in our jaded, middle-school-y world. Necessary even, especially in the creative arts. The other day, I came across videos from dance classes I’ve taught over the years. College students in Beginning Modern Dance performed their own choreography with genuine feeling, and the overall effect was stunning. These dancers were football players, EMT volunteers, aspiring DJs, visual artists, bio majors. You might say they were people you wouldn’t peg to be in a dance class. But you would be wrong. We all belong in a dance class. They had as many reasons to be in that studio as I did.
Watching the footage, I remembered the joy and the beautiful earnestness of these dancers doing something uncertain. Moving and partnering with other humans is scary! Fraught! Difficult! It’s weird, but weird is good, remember? What’s breathtaking about these performances is the image of people trying. Opening up. Tapping into something they didn’t know they had. In motion, they embody the phrase “putting yourself out there.” They are gorgeous, collaborative and fully present. Even, dare I say, tender.
In dance, and in all the arts, earnestness is a blend of sweet and serious with a dose of delight. Think community theater auditions. There’s a touch of “beginner’s mind.” Every day, you and I, we leap over a hurdle of earnestness, especially when we become (dun dun dunnnn) experts in something. Expert practitioners develop a dangerous, calloused cocktail of judgment/expectations/envy. But beginners don’t operate that way. They have no choice but to give themselves over to an experience. Trying something new puts you on a ledge. You fall or fly. It might give you a wicked vulnerability hangover, but it’s ultimately good for you.
Earnestness is a balm, it takes the sting out of snark. The word “snark” doesn’t even appear in my elderly dictionary. So let’s use sarcasm. Earnestness counters it.
Don’t get me wrong, I do live and breathe sarcasm. It’s in my bones and when I hear it well-used, it’s one of life’s great pleasures—a sign of intelligence and brilliant comedic minds. But zingers can strike a fine line between inclusion and exclusion.
Sarcasm and snark are learned skills. And as fun as they are in practice, something is lost if you become proficient and abandon sincerity. It’s an interesting day when kids get really good at it (okay, it’s also awesome). But a loss of sincerity is just that, a loss. Once, I walked into the living room and saw my then 5-year-old wearing goggles and earnestly “swimming” on the floor. We could spend our whole lives trying to get back to that kind of free, earnest expression.
Speaking of swimming, people on diving boards are my heroes of earnestness. There are two ways off of a board. Leap or creep back the way you came. Divers choose to hurl themselves into the unknown. The other day, I saw a tween (caught between earnestness and snark, age-wise), kneeling on the edge of the diving board, hands pointed together. Sharp as a knife. Vulnerable as a baby chick. All eyes were on her— teenage lifeguards, uncool parents and her fellow friend, shouting support as she clunked into the water imperfectly, earnestly. What could be more beautiful? And who were any of us to judge? The rest of us were tooling around the edge of the pool in squeaky shoes, leveled by our own birthday-suited-ness. How earnest is a bathing suit? No amount of sarcasm covers that up.
I, too, dove off the board for the first time in about 20 years. Back in the day, I must have done it thousands of times. Although I used to perform back dives and ill-advised handstands off the board, my signature move was a swan dive that made me feel like a sugary, 3-tiered confection. I tried it the other day. And although it hurt my head, it was a thrill. Up in the air, you have no choice but to earnestly fold your fingers and fly.
When I left the dance world to write, I moved from one earnest art form to another. I thought, what’s more earnest than dancing? But it might be writing. I learned there’s a difference between talking about my work and actually writing it. If I’m only thinking about something, it can still be everything I imagine. But the act of writing it down is a level of earnestness that is hard to confront. It’s fighting a losing battle with perfectionism. I have to shield myself from my own earnestness. When I write, I have to dance like no one’s watching, including me.
All this earnest talk is coming from someone who loves to be indirect. Can I really be earnest if I approach things sideways? It’s hard to say what I feel (Do I even know?). It’s hard to say what I mean (Will I hurt you? Will you like me?). It’s easy for me to love dance more than words because, I mean, what am I really saying with movement? Elephant in the room…nobody knows! My favorite modes of movement are indirect. A light sketch rather than a sculpture. A tap rather than a punch.
Yet I am drawn to the challenge of saying an actual thing in writing, in earnest. This is hard for so-called adults. But, as I’ve seen, a grown-up trying a new things can be sweeter than a baby taking her first step. The stakes are higher. There’s farther to fall. We need safe spaces where we can practice earnestly. Studios, notebooks, classrooms. In my critique group, we talk about being “protectors of the heart.” In the face of feedback and revisions, we keep that seed of earnestness alive while the red pen burns everything else around it.
While we’re talking about revisions, I keep mistyping “earnest” as “eager.” Telling. They are related. I found “eager” while looking for “earnest”: “requiring careful consideration; serious; important” (see synonyms under EAGER).” Maybe eagerness edges into people pleasing, but it does come from a desire to connect. You can make earnest things alone, but you need to be eager to share them.
Take a look at eager being all eager over here…
In the arts, we need a combo of earnestness and eagerness to make something happen. We’re earnest when we start a project (“Ooh! An idea! I must gallivant without an inner judge!”). But we need eagerness to finish it (“Ooh! I believe in myself! Imagine that!”).
The big turn here is that, on your way to making earnest art, you might need sarcasm and snark on your shoulders, keeping things light and true. You would be amazed how dance can be sly, sarcastic, hilarious, brilliant, egg-heady and earnest all at once. So can a swan dive. So can an essay, if you tap it out without taking yourself too seriously.
As we wrap up, and in the spirit of earnestness, I want to say I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for reading this. I’m squeamish about the weirdness of writing in public, so thanks for making it all the way to the end. How earnest of you. I wish I could give you a prize.
What about enjoying an earnest thought for a whole minute? You can always say “EW” later.
Earnestly Yours,
Jenny