A Poor Teacher

Until recently, I’ve been shy about my singing voice. When I was young, I received the message that I couldn’t sing, meaning I couldn’t hold a tune. It was embarrassing. That what was coming out of my mouth was so conspicuously wrong to everyone but me was intolerable. The problem however, is that I’ve always loved music, and I’ve always loved singing along with my favorite songs. As long, that is, as I was alone – or, if I wasn’t completely alone, if there was someone in another room, I was singing quietly.

My wife has a lovely and confident singing voice. She took lessons for a bit in her twenties. At that time, she talked about her “head voice” and her “chest voice” and how she had to learn to switch from one to the other. I had no idea what she was talking about. I just knew I envied her, how the songs she sang sounded like actual music, how her voice followed effortlessly the contours of the tune. Then my brother started taking singing lessons a few years back, and he too talked to me about his head and chest voices. Whatever, I thought. That’s fancy stuff for people who can carry tunes.

Then I started writing my own songs. I had gradually taught myself to more or less hold a tune, which pleased me. I also liked to belt out the songs. It was easier to hit the notes when I did so. I waited until the house was empty, of course, but I liked doing it just the same. Then, the other day, as I was belting away, I felt it. The song, my voice, was ringing in my head. Then, as the melody descended, my voice dropped into my chest, just like an actual singer. Occasionally, however, my voice landed somewhere in between – my throat. When it did so it became constricted and I could rarely find the note. Yet, I realized, my throat is exactly where I’d sung for years because it was quieter. How else are you going to sing if you don’t want to be heard?

Shame is such a reliably poor teacher. It asks, “How can we arrange things so the world doesn’t know you exist, so all your ugliness and incorrectness stays hidden?” It’s a rather impossible task, frankly, since you do exist, but it doesn’t mean you can’t try and appear even odder in the process. If you write without wanting to be read, speak without wanting to be heard, you’re a creature in conflict with yourself, out of tune with the song you were meant to sing.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com