"So Have You Gotten That Writing Thing Out Of Your System?"
Posted by Andie Ryan Blog at 7/16/2009 6:20 PM 
Categories: Writing Life
Tags: writers writing art artistry work
Categories: Writing Life
Tags: writers writing art artistry work
I shouldn't have been surprised at the question, coming from a buttoned-down accountant with a nine-to-five job and a train commute that bites two hours from his day. When I first told him I was writing a novel, there was that initial incredulous recoil. You'd think I'd have gotten off the elevator that morning wearing a headband and smoking a fatty.
But it did surprise me. He really wasn't kidding.
Do some people genuinely believe that artistic tendencies need curing? Do they think the need to write or paint or compose subsides like a craving for pancakes after being indulged? It's unfortunate that artistic occupations are perceived by many to be of lesser importance or value than traditional ones that earn a steady salary, a retirement plan, and benefits. But why? Simply because the artist is paid less? Or is it because the artist, generally understood to be following a pursuit he wants, is for that reason perceived not to be actually working?
I was at a bookstore event last week, and briefly met another writer. Her book was on display, and someone introduced me to her as a debut author. I asked if her featured book was her first novel too, which it was. But we exchanged a look, and there was something in her expression I'll never forget, a mutual understanding of what it took, how much it took, to get our first books written and rewritten, rewritten again and out. Maybe I was imagining it, but I got the feeling it took a lot for her, as it did for me.
Some people don't think writing is "real" work because early rising and commuting to a workplace aren't (usually) involved. Friends have told me this. But writing is grinding work, much harder than any other job I've had, and I've had some demanding ones. It takes effort and sacrifice. You can't get away from it. Let's not even get into the self-discipline it requires, the armor against which everyone else must be shut out for the work to get done. Most people of any importance in your life won't understand it. So why do it? Why not just file on and off the cattle cars with everyone else?
A writer writes because he has to. And at the end of the day -- an attempt at fulfillment. The luxury most difficult to afford.
Some people discover their passion late, some never discover it, and some just don't recognize it, for themselves or for others. Perhaps it's a kind of resentment toward people who seek and try to find what they want, who are perceived as gliding through life instead of sloshing through the mud like everyone else.
But maybe I'm being too harsh. Maybe artistry can take other forms, masquerade as skill. Could it be explaining a math problem, landing planes, cultivating roses, eagling a par four, rebuilding car engines, putting out fires, or baking a two-crust pie? If we're really successful at comprehending the art in other people's lives, could it be accounting? Is that as hard for some of us to grasp as the idea of writing a novel is for my colleague?
Maybe he just doesn't get it and can't see beyond his own metaphorical treadmill. Maybe his job is his vocation. But no matter what he believes, maybe art is whatever we care enough about to give our best and try to do well, whether for fifteen minutes a day or fifteen hours.
It never goes away. And we never get it out of our system.
But it did surprise me. He really wasn't kidding.
Do some people genuinely believe that artistic tendencies need curing? Do they think the need to write or paint or compose subsides like a craving for pancakes after being indulged? It's unfortunate that artistic occupations are perceived by many to be of lesser importance or value than traditional ones that earn a steady salary, a retirement plan, and benefits. But why? Simply because the artist is paid less? Or is it because the artist, generally understood to be following a pursuit he wants, is for that reason perceived not to be actually working?
I was at a bookstore event last week, and briefly met another writer. Her book was on display, and someone introduced me to her as a debut author. I asked if her featured book was her first novel too, which it was. But we exchanged a look, and there was something in her expression I'll never forget, a mutual understanding of what it took, how much it took, to get our first books written and rewritten, rewritten again and out. Maybe I was imagining it, but I got the feeling it took a lot for her, as it did for me.
Some people don't think writing is "real" work because early rising and commuting to a workplace aren't (usually) involved. Friends have told me this. But writing is grinding work, much harder than any other job I've had, and I've had some demanding ones. It takes effort and sacrifice. You can't get away from it. Let's not even get into the self-discipline it requires, the armor against which everyone else must be shut out for the work to get done. Most people of any importance in your life won't understand it. So why do it? Why not just file on and off the cattle cars with everyone else?
A writer writes because he has to. And at the end of the day -- an attempt at fulfillment. The luxury most difficult to afford.
Some people discover their passion late, some never discover it, and some just don't recognize it, for themselves or for others. Perhaps it's a kind of resentment toward people who seek and try to find what they want, who are perceived as gliding through life instead of sloshing through the mud like everyone else.
But maybe I'm being too harsh. Maybe artistry can take other forms, masquerade as skill. Could it be explaining a math problem, landing planes, cultivating roses, eagling a par four, rebuilding car engines, putting out fires, or baking a two-crust pie? If we're really successful at comprehending the art in other people's lives, could it be accounting? Is that as hard for some of us to grasp as the idea of writing a novel is for my colleague?
Maybe he just doesn't get it and can't see beyond his own metaphorical treadmill. Maybe his job is his vocation. But no matter what he believes, maybe art is whatever we care enough about to give our best and try to do well, whether for fifteen minutes a day or fifteen hours.
It never goes away. And we never get it out of our system.
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