When the flush of a newborn sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?" —Kipling, “The Conundrum of the Workshops.”
When I was a kid, the goal was to draw the picture and get it put on the fridge. Mom and dad would make a brief fuss as the picture was ceremoniously displayed, and that was that. I don’t think it gets better than this: audience and critical community are an intimate whole. One’s parents (and maybe an appreciative sibling) are the entire world, and their approval is complete and unwavering.
Of course, then comes adolescence, and confirmation from the world that what you’re making is “good” becomes more elusive. The notion emerged from somewhere that if I could write for a large enough audience, I would have arrived. It came in the form of hunting for high grades for essays or short fiction, and approving comments from friends. Yet all the while, the devil whispers from behind the leaves: “But is it art?”
What is art? There’s a divide in how people respond. For some, it’s the satisfaction intrinsic to the act of making. Kipling’s Adam gets to do with a stick in the dirt. But since we’re social beings, usually art needs to function as a form of communion with others. Writers hope and pray that their work will fulfill a public role—maybe serve as an intimate articulation of a private desire or fear, or, more grandiosely, speak to a collective psychic need of some sort. Whatever effect we’ll have on others—major or minor, good or ill—we want publication.
For the new writer, this first goal (getting something—anything—published anywhere) is in some respects the hardest hurdle. It can seem like published writers take on a type of mass, like the proverbial snowball rolling down the hill, or fat cats getting fatter, whereas getting the traction to just start is impossible. But in many ways this is the sweetest spot: to be on the brink of that first publication. The goal is so clear, and so achievable. It tantalizes. After the first few publications, the devil starts whispering again: “Is that really a respectable magazine though? Does anyone read that?” Where do you go now? How does one climb? At which perch do you escape the whispers from the primal leaves below?
For many years, I used my family life (I’ve got four kids!) and my career (I'm a university professor!) to hide from this weird and lonely climb I’d set up for myself. To be a writing teacher seemed like a compromise I could live with: help others produce their best work while I tinkered with my prose and poetry without sending it out to others for evaluation. After all, who are these people, these editors and publishers? Why hand over work for appraisal from such strange fellow animals, all looking to climb up and away from the whispers themselves? But I’ve come to realize that avoidance doesn’t work. The urge to make and share continues, regardless. Even though you want to cling to your clothes, you’re always naked when you write. All the other animals can see you as you are. So be it.
This year, I landed not one but two long-term goals. I published a novel and an academic monograph. I was happy about this for a moment, but now I have to think about how to peddle my wares. I hate the role of salesman. I find myself trying to hide from promoting the work. The question looms again: why do I write? What am I trying to serve when I make a piece of text? One of the most fascinating and enigmatic attempts to answer this question comes from Joy Williams. Her thinking on this question haunts me, and takes me to strange depths. I hope it takes you somewhere strange and new as well: https://extensivereadinguae.files.wordpress.com/2013/12/16-uncanny-the-singing-that-comes-from-certain-husks.pdf