The seven deadly sins of writing, part two: pride
The following blog is Part Two of my series on the seven deadly sins of writing, in which I use George Saunders’ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain as a reference. Read on to discover how pride can compromise your writing, and what you can do about it. For my thoughts on sloth, envy, and wrath, visit Part One of the series.
Pride
Pride is defined by Merriam-Webster as “exaggerated self-esteem.” In common parlance, pride is thought to be a virtue. Indeed, it can help produce writing that is bold and compelling. In excessive amounts, however, pride can be a detriment. That’s because pride is a state of complete interiority. The prideful person is only concerned with themselves—their own attributes, talents, and accomplishments. That internal focus might make us feel safe and comfortable, but it ultimately limits us in myriad ways.
Pridefulness convinces us that we are always in the right, and should resist or reject external feedback. Such feedback threatens the identities that we’ve constructed for ourselves. But such a fragile mindset deprives us of the important benefits of outside perspectives. For writers, that outside perspective— of a peer, editor, or reader—can significantly improve their work by illuminating our strengths and weaknesses. On our own, we may not be able to identify holes in our logic or problems with sentence structure.
Substantively, incorporating different points of view into our writing brings nuance and subtlety. Our writing becomes expansive and specific, rather than oversimplified and reductive. Pride, like wrath, leads to myopia.
Tolstoy’s “Master and Man” brilliantly tackles the sin of pride. Vasili is a landowner who goes on a journey to purchase a farm, bringing along a peasant, Nikita. Vasili is not lacking in the self-esteem department; he repeatedly congratulates himself for being strong and powerful. Saunders describes him as “a blusterer and a bully. To be happy, he has to be in control, correct, victorious, obeyed” (Saunders 232). Vasili looks down on peasants, whom he disparages as “shiftless people,” and sees himself as superior to them. “I take trouble,” he claims, “not like others who lie abed or waste their time on foolishness.”
As the men are traveling on horseback, the temperature drops and a blizzard begins to brew. They keep getting lost, and the situation becomes increasingly precarious.
As the storm accelerates, Vasili and Nikita realize that their lives are in mortal danger. It is then that Vasili undergoes a moral transformation. Eschewing his old ways, he lies on top of Nikita, protecting the peasant and keeping him warm. In performing this selfless act of kindness, Vasili’s pride dissipates. He feels a “strange and solemn tenderness” and starts to cry. Vasili eventually freezes to death but saves Nikita’s life.
In the end, Vasili finally sees what his pride caused him to miss out on. When caring for Nikita, he felt “a peculiar joy such as he had never felt before” (211). Pride had kept Vasili from experiencing the full range of human emotion.
Writers (who may or may not find themselves staring death in the eye during a Russian blizzard) should nonetheless heed Tolstoy’s warning about pride. Because embracing humility by listening to other perspectives unlocks our vast potential.
To be continued. . .