What I Learned About Ethos Today (and by Extension, Myself)

So, today I learned a little more about writing an ethical appeal. I also happened to learn something about myself, and it's the sort of keen insight that I feel deserves to be recorded here on the Intertron so that it might persist forever in digital immortality.

I was given (along with my writing group, can't forget them) the task in today's class to write about why the class was the worst one I've ever had. I was supposed to do so in a way that made me seem trustworthy and reliable. I'll note that this was rather difficult to do since I actually like the class, and I've always found it difficult to talk about things that I like; certainly, it's more difficult than talking about things I genuinely dislike, and trying to pretend to dislike something that I actually like is even more difficult by several degrees of magnitude.

At the time, I decided that in order to appeal via the ethos, I should use high language, the sort of "institutional vocabulary" that gets undergrads like me all fired up and ready for a revolution, or something. You know the type, real grandiose speech, lots of polysyllabic words (I absolutely love the word "polysyllabic, by the way, definitely adding it to the list) and high diction to make me sound, you know, really authoritative.

The problem was that I didn't really know what to say and I felt this sense of pressure given that I had only a few minutes to write. To compound my unease, it was meant to be a group writing activity, and while I'm normally a fan of group things, when it comes to actually writing something, I'm not much of a team player. My little "writing thing," the part of my brain that does its thing whenever I say "hey, brain, get to work," well, that part of my brain doesn't play nicely with others. I try not to be selfish about it, but the brain, you know, it's going to do what it's going to do, totally a "Be quiet now, Daddy's talking" kind of thing.

So all of these things lead up to a bit of anxiety about what I should be doing, how I should be helping. And what I realized today was that my sarcastic side comes out entirely as a reflex in these situations, and that even though my intention was, legitimately, to write a serious thing, I fell back into sarcasm and the sort of acidic wit that I know, I know will get a laugh. It's a defense against an insecurity.

I'm not always sarcastic; right now, for example, I believe that I sound entirely collected and honest in my observations. But I'm also sitting at home, in my sanctuary, at my desk in front of my computer with my beer, so there's no danger. There's only me and the page, and I can take as long as I want to say whatever I want. No need to be sarcastic unless I want to be.

But man, you get into a social situation, add a little bit of pressure, and it's like a goddamn cobra or something. I get the fangs out, dripping venom, and even if... hell, especially if, I don't have a target, I let the bitterness flow. In fact, I probably do it more often when I don't have anybody in particular, when it's just the situation that's making me feel uneasy, because I don't really want people to think that I'm a jerk. I'm not trying to hurt anybody's feelings.

I found myself afterward thinking why it was so hard for me to write an honest (well, trustworthy) ethical appeal to meet the requirements of the piece. Surely it can't be that hard to imagine it; I'm a fiction writer by nature, a storyteller! Yet in the heat of the moment, at the actual time and place, all I could think about was using the most ridiculous language possible, the most absurd and grandiose claims that I knew would garner a laugh, even though it was contrary to my intention.

It's like, damn, realizing that facet of my personality really calls into question a lot of other conceptions I have about myself. How much of me is really me, and how much of who I am, both in the perception of others and the reality of my actions, is just one anxiety or some neuroses governing all that I think and feel?