“One of the hardest things to make a child understand is, that down underneath your feet, if you go far enough, you come to blue sky and stars again; that there really is no “down” for the world, but only in every direction an “up.” And that this is an all-embracing truth.”
…It is also what “we grown children find it hardest to realize, too.”—Anne Gilchrist
Occasionally, I randomly open a book to see what it
offers for the day. After the above I found this morning, I opened Natalie Goldberg’s book Writing
Down the Bones, (1986) page 48 (30th Anniversary Edition), and this spoke to me.
“A writer must say yes to life, to all of life, the water glasses, the Kemp’s half and half, the ketchup on the counter. It is not a writer’s task to say, “It is dumb to live in a small town or to eat in a café’ when you can eat macrobiotics at home.”
Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist—the absolute truth of who we are—several pounds overweight, the gray, cold street outside, the Christmas tinsel in the showcase, the Jewish writer in the orange booth across from her blond friend who has black children. We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop those details from becoming.”—Natalie Goldberg.
At first I wasn't going to blog this week--declare Tuesday a day of mourning, but then I wrote my apologies, and now I can't help myself--well, I could, but I don't want to. In times of trouble, I turn to my computer and books for solace. I am passing on what I found this morning for the artists out there (all of you are) and those suffering for what they fear to come.
Before my last post, titled “I Apologize,” I began
writing about writing and on being an artist, then decided it wasn’t addressing
what I felt was important. I’ve changed my mind. Becoming an artist is
important.
Once, a prominent psychiatrist told me that writing is self-aggrandizement.
What an idiot.
I don’t care how many credentials he had, he still missed the point, traumatized me, and besmirched all literature.
If you have decided that you are imposing your great wisdom on someone, then you might be accused of aggrandizement, but if you want to become an artist—that’s a different story. (The psychiatrist disagreed with the writer of a book I was reading.)
An artist wants to express himself, which takes many forms—artistry is creative expression.
Art is where your heart is.
And HOPE is right beside it. We have to believe there is hope for the future. We have to HOPE that we aren’t all tied up in Plato’s dark cave, only seeing shadows, not the real things.
A scientist HOPES his theory is correct. A singer HOPES her audience likes her song. A songwriter, HOPES his lyrics ring true.
Every artist who sits down to his work begins the hero’s journey. Every time. Over and over. He leaves his comfortable ground to set out, not knowing what pitfalls will befall him. He or she HOPES they live to reach their destination, and they HOPE they have something to offer the tribe.
The writer-artist doesn’t write to impart wisdom; he writes to find himself, and through that self-discovery, he HOPES to motivate others to do the same.
Who was it, Issac Asimov, who said “I write to find out what I am thinking?” Maybe it was Joan Didion who wrote a book with that title.
That is something my friend, the psychiatrist, did not understand, for if you follow Natalie Goldberg’s way of thinking that writing is a therapeutic experience, it might put him out of business.
Then there is old procrastination (Steven Pressfield calls it resistance) in finding something else to do besides THE WORK. THE WORK (your artistry) is scary, that’s the reason we put it off.
Hemingway said writing was opening a vein.
Liz Gilbert said to enjoy your creativity.
I enjoy writing. While writing, I am in the flow, and time is a no-thing. My demons aren’t as scary to me as Hemingway’s was to him. Or maybe he thought one must suffer for their craft. Published writers have an additional problem; they want to match or exceed their earliest work, which burdens them.
Steven Pressfield found that once he declared himself a writer (found his calling) and he sat down at the typewriter, typed out a few pages he later threw away—he was freed. A few minutes later he was at the sink washing 10 days of stacked up dishes—and humming.
Suffering comes in the gap between where you are and
where you want to be.
While hunting for a different picture I had recently placed in my files, I found this one. I hope that bull didn't land on his once upon a time rider.
P.S. Hey, it looks like I got my follow button back. How about a follow?