Don’t Let Your Writing Break You
If you're good at this, revel in it.
I’ve been binge-watching a British series called “Landscape Artist of the Year” on Prime Video. Before this I’ve binge-watched the companion show called '“Portrait Artist of the Year”. I can’t begin to describe the joy I get from watching those artists bring people and scenes to life with so few tools in such a short amount of time.
In “Landscape”, each week eight or nine artists gather at a beautiful place somewhere in the British Isles and spend four hours trying to make art of what they’re seeing in front of them. At the end of the four hours one is chosen to go on to the final, where only one of the seven weekly winners will be chosen to win a 10,000-pound commission to paint a scene to be hung in a famous public place in England.
Most but not all of the chosen artists are professionals. Some are incredibly talented amateurs, and, except for a few so far, I’m in absolute awe of what they all can achieve, given only four hours to complete an entire work.
By the end of the season I’ve usually decided on my own favorites, and often they coincide with the decision of the judges—but not always. We’re all looking for that thing that moves us, and what moves us is what moves us is what moves us.
The thing is, those artists with so much talent it’s bursting out of them and landing gut-smacked right into my innards—dozens of them—go home as losers. They’ve given their all, they’ve put their colossal talents on display, they’ve produced works that are quite literally breathtaking, they’ve thought about what it would be like to win—fingers crossed—and they go home losers.
These shows have been going on for at least 10 years now. That’s a lot of damned fine artists who didn’t win.
So then, of course, I think about us. We writers. We give it our all, we’ve trained for this, we see ourselves as winners (or we wouldn’t be competing), and so, so often we end up as losers. Someone has beaten us to it, and we’re left behind. We applaud the winners, and often we really mean it, but there’s always that nagging thought—what am I doing wrong? What could I be doing differently? Why wasn’t it ME?
Here’s the thing: I’ve portrayed those non-winning artists as ‘losers’, but I’m betting not a one of them went home and threw away canvases and brushes and turpentine, never to allow themselves to be that vulnerable again. They didn’t. They went on, grateful for the chance, holding that belief, stronger than ever, that they are in fact damn good at what they do.
Were they disappointed? Hell, yeah! Are you kidding? That was a prize to die for!
But back to us: If we didn’t believe we’re damned good at what we do we wouldn’t be doing it. Should the world be opening doors to us? Absolutely. But what if it doesn’t? What if our only fame comes from those few readers who say things like, “I love the way you write”. Or '“You really spoke to me”. Or “I can’t wait to see what else you’ve written”. Can we ever be losers after that?
Only if we think we are.
If your work is admired, even in the slightest, you’ve struck a chord. There are more chords out there, without a doubt. How far or how fast we go, nobody knows, but if writing isn’t a joy for you, even some of the time, it won’t be a joy for your readers, either.
You have to find joy in your work—even that work that pains you as you write. The experience, the process, must be the thing that drives you. The acclaim is the ultimate goal—we need to be perfectly honest—but how do you define ‘acclaim’? How much would be enough? Is there such a thing as too little? If your work speaks to even one other person, will it be worth it to you?
If everything about writing pains you, you need to look for something else to do. Any creation has to be fulfilling or it’s not worth doing. You don’t have to do this. The world wouldn’t end if you stopped. If you’re saying, “I write because I must”, and at the same time you’re saying, “I’m miserable as a writer”, I’m telling you: take a breath and admit there’s some masochism going on here.
Good writing comes from that part of you that is an artist. You’re creating works out of nothing, and that feeling when you’ve finished should be glorious. In the end you’re doing it for you. You have something to prove to yourself and if, after all your hard work, you’re satisfied, to hell with the rest of the world.
But here’s the bottom line: if you do decide to quit, there’s no shame in that, either. Something else is waiting for you. If you have art in your heart, you’ll find it.
I’m anxious to see what the rest of you think about this. Does it seem to you, as it does to me, that a lot of writers are miserable right now? (I’m asking because it’s happened to me at times. Then I have to rethink it—as I have here.)
I appreciate your thoughts on this! What I’m thinking about is that there's always an audience component to art - that is, art does not truly feel complete without that feedback loop from those who see/read/experience it. So, there will always be a loss if no one reads you (and moreso if you’re striving to get paid). In theatre, it’s the same – the process of building a show and creating truly good performances is fantastic – but it’s always more satisfying (financially and otherwise) if the seats are filled and the reviews are positive.
But, I agree with you that it does feel really good (even “glorious”) to create, period, even if no one sees or appreciates it. This is easy for me to say, perhaps, because I write for my friends and family mostly and am not trying to make writing my living. It feels even more glorious, of course, if others out there experience and are touched by my words. But for me, anyway, the creative process of writing itself is IT. I am a better person for it, and will go on creating, even if all the submissions get rejected, if no one except my mom reads what I write. And, next time those rejections come – or the quiet following a Substack post – I’ll remind myself of what I just said.:)
I agree with all this. But I’d add that even those of us who get great satisfaction from writing—as I do, actually it’s more than that, it’s a huge part of my identity, my solace, the way my life is organized—go through periods when it’s hard to write, for any number of reasons. I’m not talking about so-called “writer’s block”—I’m talking about stuff that gets in the way of giving yourself over to writing. Sometimes that’s mysterious (e.g. you just can’t make your mind/fingers go there) sometimes it’s pretty clear (e.g. grief, personal relationship issues, etc.). When I taught writing, my students often struggled (I do too) to get in the space they needed to be in to write; when that happened, I advised them to see it as part of the process, and to let the “work” happen on the unconscious level, until they were ready. Nothing you’ve said contradicts that! I guess I’m just inserting it as a “p.s.”