Don't Bother Me, Can't You See I'm Not Working?
Some creative types -- perhaps a minority -- can sometimes wrench their heads up out of their habitual cloud of fantasy, twist their necks around by about 180 degrees, and take a long look at themselves and their work. When they do, they'll almost inevitably end up pondering why they haven't achieved more.
Well, enough with that superior pronoun "they"; I'm talking about "we," of course. Being creative, we can spin out endless reasons for how little we've accomplished. ("Little" in this context is a relative term which results from comparing what we've actually done to what we're sure, deep down, we're capable of doing -- kind of like making an invidious comparison to ourselves.) Our rationales slog wearily through our minds, like embarrassed tramps with worn-out shoes and sad expressions. Ultimately they become boring, because they're always the same: I didn't write that book because... That painting didn't quite work out because... I never found a publisher for that story because...
Of course, not all rationales are rationalizations; some are true. It's hard to tell which kind these are, even though we concocted them ourselves; but if we know anything about art history it's pretty hard not to suspect that we're lying to ourselves. You think you have... ah... impediments? What about the great painters who were so poor they had to chose between buying paint or food, or the painter who did some of his best work while going blind, or the painter who sometimes woke up lying in the gutter? What about writers who lived in cramped ghettos or freezing attics or back alleyways, or the one who wrote his masterwork in a medieval prison cell? (Extra brownie points to anyone who can identify these true examples.) You think you've got good excuses not to work?
Still, external cirumstances really do intervene -- or even interdict -- sometimes, so maybe it's... um... not our fault?
It's hard to tell, because we are by our nature good at manufacturing little fictions cloaked in an atmosphere of verisimilitude. (Wait a minute -- that's just my fancy-pants way of saying what I was trying to avoid saying outright -- that we're good at lying and making it sound real.) I'm not just talking about fiction writers, either. I'm both a writer and an illustrator, and although they generally feel very different, I know that in a few respects they're strangely similar pursuits. Both writers and artists learn how to simulate realities, how to -- in essence -- "defraud" the viewer into believing something is there which actually isn't. That's an orientation which makes it all the easier to con ourselves, sometimes.
So which is it, true impediments or creative deceptions? Let's not give ourselves the benefit of the doubt -- let's assume we artsy types are mostly a bunch of self-deceiving rationalizers. (C'mon, you know it's true.) I'm sure you're familiar with our usual litany of rationalizations, so I'll just allude to them briefly here -- you know the list: no time/no money/no quiet place/dumb audience/biased editors/tasteless galleries/no connections/etc. Okay, now skip the baloney for a minute -- what are the real issues? The hidden, self-imposed demons that hold us back?
They fall into several categories, but I'm convinced that the most common impediments to creating good stuff aren't lack of talent, skill, desire, or discipline, although those all come into play. I've come to believe that the most common, and most destructive, impediments to creative achievement ultimately boil down to this: lack of courage.
Lack of courage -- or, to use the simplest term, fear -- is, in this context, actually not just one thing; it's more like a small family of malevolent critters. In the days to come, I'm going to write, one-by-one, about each of the different kinds of courage I think we creative types need if we hope to accomplish the two things we all claim to want: getting good work done and finding an audience for it.
Well, enough with that superior pronoun "they"; I'm talking about "we," of course. Being creative, we can spin out endless reasons for how little we've accomplished. ("Little" in this context is a relative term which results from comparing what we've actually done to what we're sure, deep down, we're capable of doing -- kind of like making an invidious comparison to ourselves.) Our rationales slog wearily through our minds, like embarrassed tramps with worn-out shoes and sad expressions. Ultimately they become boring, because they're always the same: I didn't write that book because... That painting didn't quite work out because... I never found a publisher for that story because...
Of course, not all rationales are rationalizations; some are true. It's hard to tell which kind these are, even though we concocted them ourselves; but if we know anything about art history it's pretty hard not to suspect that we're lying to ourselves. You think you have... ah... impediments? What about the great painters who were so poor they had to chose between buying paint or food, or the painter who did some of his best work while going blind, or the painter who sometimes woke up lying in the gutter? What about writers who lived in cramped ghettos or freezing attics or back alleyways, or the one who wrote his masterwork in a medieval prison cell? (Extra brownie points to anyone who can identify these true examples.) You think you've got good excuses not to work?
Still, external cirumstances really do intervene -- or even interdict -- sometimes, so maybe it's... um... not our fault?
It's hard to tell, because we are by our nature good at manufacturing little fictions cloaked in an atmosphere of verisimilitude. (Wait a minute -- that's just my fancy-pants way of saying what I was trying to avoid saying outright -- that we're good at lying and making it sound real.) I'm not just talking about fiction writers, either. I'm both a writer and an illustrator, and although they generally feel very different, I know that in a few respects they're strangely similar pursuits. Both writers and artists learn how to simulate realities, how to -- in essence -- "defraud" the viewer into believing something is there which actually isn't. That's an orientation which makes it all the easier to con ourselves, sometimes.
So which is it, true impediments or creative deceptions? Let's not give ourselves the benefit of the doubt -- let's assume we artsy types are mostly a bunch of self-deceiving rationalizers. (C'mon, you know it's true.) I'm sure you're familiar with our usual litany of rationalizations, so I'll just allude to them briefly here -- you know the list: no time/no money/no quiet place/dumb audience/biased editors/tasteless galleries/no connections/etc. Okay, now skip the baloney for a minute -- what are the real issues? The hidden, self-imposed demons that hold us back?
They fall into several categories, but I'm convinced that the most common impediments to creating good stuff aren't lack of talent, skill, desire, or discipline, although those all come into play. I've come to believe that the most common, and most destructive, impediments to creative achievement ultimately boil down to this: lack of courage.
Lack of courage -- or, to use the simplest term, fear -- is, in this context, actually not just one thing; it's more like a small family of malevolent critters. In the days to come, I'm going to write, one-by-one, about each of the different kinds of courage I think we creative types need if we hope to accomplish the two things we all claim to want: getting good work done and finding an audience for it.
posted by Lawrence San | 9:14 AM
