What Vibrato and Ketchup Can Teach Us About Genius

Advice for clever people

When I was in college I signed up for a “Personal Memoir” course. Taught by the English Department’s golden son Professor Nick Harp, enrollment in Personal Memoir came with an iron caveat: Do not enroll if you want to write about being “the good guy.”

This is an essential guiding principle for memoir, nothing is so clear, or reeks so bad as a writer trying to win their decades long shower arguments and demanding you sit through it. This is a common affliction amongst young writers, attempting to appear perfect so as to appear likable. However, stories of moral perfection are barely stories, and leave a familiar aftertaste. Like Sweet N’ Low, stevia packets– artificial and chemically saccharine. Professor Harp’s prescription was simple: Recount a formative experience and start with the worst thing you did. 

Despite the warnings, a few of my peers decided to engage in the trauma olympics, a favorite sport amongst undergraduates. After all, isn't the most miserable person in the room the most important? Isn’t the person who’s suffered the most the most worthy of our attention? I tried my best to ignore the urge to climb to the top of the victim pile. 

I ended up writing a 35 page essay about one summer during which I tried to force my older brother to get over his breakup. Taking the course instructions to heart, I painted a picture of myself that was lecherous, admiration seeking, and dangerously irresponsible. A student in my peer review group told me that reading my essay reminded him of chugging beer– “It hurt but I felt proud when I finished it in one go.”

I was promptly invited to office hours with Professor Harp which left me feeling anxious. Had I followed his instructions too well? Had this entire course been a sting operation designed to identify those not fit for society? Tell us the worst thing you did. Jesus. What kind of a mark was I?  How could I have fallen for such an obvious trap? 

Despite my squirrelly demeanor (and appearance), my meeting with Professor Harp was amicable. “You know,” he told me, “You’re a good writer. And you’re very clever.” 

I’d have beamed with pride, were I not accustomed to Michigan’s note-giving policy. Praise first, then criticism. 

“This puts me in sort of a difficult position. I’m supposed to teach people to be good writers, and if there’s time, clever ones. So what you and I are going to focus on is restraint.” 

…Restraint? 

“Restraint is the final hallmark of genius,” he told me. “If you can be clever whenever you want, your work is defined by when you decide not to be. It’s defined by the moments in which you decide to be quiet, or simple. By the moments in which you choose to show restraint.” 

I left feeling affirmed and yet, confused. If I’m being totally honest, it took years for that note to fully sink in. I went on to write comedies which I packed to the gills with as many jokes as possible, desperate to prove that I was funny, nay funnier than my peers. Though paradoxically, the more I crammed into my work the more hollow it became. Having entered my twilight years, (I’m 27) I lovingly refer to that period of my career as the Guy Fieri Era. My Guy Fiera. 

So let’s start with Guy Fieri.