Good
Making "Art"
Good
I have been writing novels for 11 years now. 27 novels. Over 2.5 million words. People say that you don’t start producing anything good until after your first million. Does that mean I’m “good” now?
I’m walking away from my adult/YA fiction for a time, or maybe forever. I’ve been burned out, bashing my head against a brick wall for well over a year now (coming up on two, actually). But what can I do with my time now? What qualifications might I have? What makes me relevant… to anything, to anyone?
I have kids who need my help and support, a mother-in-law who needs attention and friendship, and a husband who needs feeding. (What an awesome man, by the way.) I can’t exactly jump back into a rapidly imploding landscape of visual effects jobs, where even the best of the best are faced with struggles never before seen in that industry. I’ve picked up the camera again, only to throw it against the brick wall, too.
Why?
I am starting to come to a conclusion.
I realize that I’ve somehow missed it (for many years now) that art, good art, fine art, cannot be made for money. Not in my case, at least. The mere distraction of the promise of pay will lead the artist away from their job of recording, drawing, sculpting, writing, all of it. Any of it.
The only way true art can be made is to create it away from the calculators. Away from critics and even supporters. You will want an editor, a trainer, a mentor… eventually. But here at the beginning, we play.
So, let’s play.
You might not make anything usable. You might make the worst costume worse. But hiding underneath all that face paint is another layer: truth. There is fear, joy, things that we lodge deep inside our minds and bodies, a mess of emotion and experience swirling around… Some of those experiences have voices that need to be heard, some do not.
But let’s not forget the point. Why did we become artists? What was it we wanted to communicate back at the beginning? Because if we can come up with answers to those questions, we just might find an easier way forward and a clearer way to create.
Let’s play!
So true - this is the challenge that many of us live with throughout our lives. I wrote my first novel for myself, for the joy of the words, for the relief of expressing the thoughts and emotions that were hidden deep inside and didn't relate to the woman who walked in the world. I didn't expect anything to come from it; it was a manifestation of something deep, intense, a sense that I could only make sense of existence through seeing those exquisite shapes manifest on the page. By a fluke, a chance encounter, that book was a success. There should have been more but life gets in the way of art - the need to eat, to care for others, the obligations and the domestic concrete that anchor your feet to the ground and leaves you immobile. I made a good living through words but they belonged to other people and I was merely their interpreter.
Finally I am writing again, playing like Jen, and the sense of relief, release, is indescribable. Nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to it.
Jen is one of the most talented people I've ever met. To know that she is allowing herself the freedom to unleash her talent is what we need to hear. Feel the joy, woman!