
Originally Posted by
alan.r
At the risk of sounding naive and stupid and/or arrogant, I thought this little story, about myself, might be of use:
I'm a fiction writer, so some people consider me an "artist." Whatever, I don't care for labels anymore, but about eight years ago I cared quite a bit. I entered a PhD program to learn more about literature and art and to become a better writer. I didn't care about a PhD, I want to make art. At the same time, I already thought I was a good writer, a real artist, you know. A maker of art. I entered this PhD program and in the first workshops read stories and thought, This isn't art; soon they'll see my writing and what real art is. So, my time for workshop came up, and not only did all the students rip my work, the teacher did too. This happened the entire year: "the writing style is fine, but the story is paint-by-numbers." Holy shit, paint by numbers? There couldn't be anything worse. I started trying to writer better and better, worked harder and harder. In my second year, still floundering, the teachers were coming down even harder, destroying all the new work, and I was seriously considering quitting; they didn't know shit, anyway, they were assholes, they were old and didn't know what new things were going on, they only cared about a certain kind of fiction, art, dickheads. So, I fought them and fought their ideas and threw out their ideas and got pissed off and got even more pissed off and one day when one of my teachers gently confronted me about my attitude and asked why I was so unhappy, I could barely contain my anger (though, yeah, I remained calm on the outside). So, with all this shit swirling in me, there I was, unable to even know what to do: quit, keep going and keep hating where I was, keep writing shit, because apparently that's all I could write. Then, as if in dream, at a break in the semester, I started writing because I was so fucking sick of thinking about how poorly I was doing; I totally lost myself in the writing of a new thing and thought, when it was finished: They'll just trash this, too. We happened to have a fairly famous (if you're in the lit world) writer visiting at the time and I thought: Not only is this going to get reamed, it's going to reamed by a famous writer I love a lot (I liked the writing of my teachers, too). But instead, what happened was: "Yep, you got this one. This is it." I was shocked to some degree. And I began to realize that I was in my own fucking way. Trying to become a great writer? What bullshit. That's what my teachers were trying to tell me, to show me. They were saying, over and over: "this is just a bunch of ego junk, why aren't you just writing?" I couldn't see it, then I suddenly saw it. I began letting go when I wrote, and while there were ups and downs, there were much more: "yep, you're grooving on this one." Things loosened, some publications came in, and I slowly, ever so slowly, began to understand how to work without getting in my own fucking way. My teachers were there to teach me some about craft, but mainly they were there to help me get out of the way of myself, and sometimes the only way to that can happen is if we get beat up a little, or even a lot.
Looking back, was I beat up a lot? Yeah. But those fists had love in them. I love those teachers now, am so grateful for them. And sometimes I still need a good hard right cross.
Maybe this isn't the kind of thing I should be posting here. But, to paraphrase Amy Hempel, the thought that finally occurred to me in grad school, and that I think about often now: how do we know that what happens to us isn't good?
Gassho,
Alan