My last post certainly struck a chord. I had loads of comments both here and on Facebook. I know it’s always hard to listen to what seems to be a good ole whinge, and people flocked to buck me up and show me the lighter side — for all of which, I thank you.
I thought I’d now make a quick list of some of the comments made:
* Glyn Pope reminded me that if you don’t have times when you feel useless, then you get complacent and your work suffers.
* Adele Ward reminded me that in today’s poetry world in order to get known it’s just as important to physically show up and read at events and open mics as it is to win competitions and get published. Maybe more.
* Emma Lee said that what all poets (all artists, actually) need is a circle of trusted readers, a group of people who you know appreciate your work. That is the most important thing to help you feel “legit” and valued. Emily Dickinson is the prime example.
*Lauri and Shauna Gilligan noted that everyone has moments of insecurity like this and it’s part and parcel of being a writer
* Tim Love left me the fantastic TS Eliot quote: No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: he may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.
* Mike Horwood agrees with Adele, but goes on to stipulate “if that’s what we want.”
“If that’s what we want”…this brings up the interesting and important question of ambition. I struggle with this quite a bit. I must admit that I am rather ambitious, and yet my ambition embarrasses me. On the one hand, ambition is what keeps us progressing, improving and challenging ourselves. That is definitely a good and important thing. But ambition also seems like just so much ego getting in the way. Fiona Robyns has an excellent posting about the importance of “enough” here. And, like always, it reminds me that the ancient Greeks were and still are right when they said Mayden agan, meaning everything in moderation, or more literally, nothing to excess. Ann Alexander told me she thinks it’s important not to be too worldly when it comes to poetry. She said, I would still write poetry even if I had never had anything published anywhere…that infinity of lovely, beautiful words to play around with; and the elusive nature of poetry – worth a lifetime’s struggle.
How could I possibly forget that?
And so, thanks to all my friends, I have been nudged back into place. I also think, after reading the excellent discussion of the same issues here by Tania Hershman, that perhaps this also has to do with where I am in my career. I’m at the five year mark: five years since I moved from being a wishful writer to a publishing writer. Five years since I’ve learned about the dark side of being published, come up against the demon of professional envy, gone from the euphoria of the bound book to the fear of what next. The question is what to do now, and what to do the inevitable next time I get out of kilter. The answer, of course, is to write. To get back to the work. Sure, I must continue to live in the real world, know it’s there and step out into it. But, as Tania mentions, I can stop focussing on the quantitative — i.e. how many followers, how many sold, how much money, how many acceptances, how many rejections — and focus on the qualitative — i.e. how beautiful is that phrase, how correct is that word choice, how true is that portrayal. I must always come back to that quiet place of me, my pencil and my notebook — whether I’m writing poems, novels, plays or even blog postings. If I can do that, then my writing and I will both be okay. I believe the same will be true for all of you, no matter what your work is. Ever onward…
I once tried to list the factors that effect reputation, seeing how one could plot a path through them. I think Chris Emery’s since done a similar thing and far more comprehensively. I wrote that “The traditional career path (publication in reputable magazines leading to pamphlet then book publication, then inclusion in anthologies) is still viable” but it’s so slow that you’ll have competition not only from your contemporaries, but from those who started later and took faster routes – performances, festivals, interning, reviewing, letters to editors, blogging, videos, teaching, scholarships, fellowship, cornering the market on a particular topic, consultancy, conferencing, niche-anthologies, local radio, residencies etc. Arts administrators seem to do well. Flexibility and risk-taking are required to exploit these options. Such an approach is hard to combine with a conventional 9-5 job or parenthood. Describing the US situation, Sam Hamill wrote that “A typical poet in North America finds it necessary to relocate every year for the first few years after college, and every several years for a couple of decades after that. … The typical poet teaches”
As an example of how even a reputable poet has to survive, consider Lavania Greenlaw. Her CV reads like a career guidance manual – 1990: Eric Gregory Award; 1995: Science Museum residency. Arts Council Writers Award, and British Council Fellow; 1997: Wingate Scholarship; 2000: three-year fellowship by the National Endowment for Science, Technology and the Arts, also reader-in-residence at the Royal Festival Hall; 2003: Cholmondeley Award. Jobs include arts administrator, freelance writer, reviewer and radio broadcaster, teaching on a Creative Writing MA Programme and working on the Tate and Hayward Gallery education programmes.
Alternatively you can just write (and leave the rest to a spouse/agent), but I don’t think it’s a risk-free, regret-free option.
I think this is a wonderful and heartwarming piece of advice for any writer –
“…stop focussing on the quantitative — i.e. how many followers, how many sold, how much money, how many acceptances, how many rejections — and focus on the qualitative — i.e. how beautiful is that phrase, how correct is that word choice, how true is that portrayal. I must always come back to that quiet place of me…”
I dont think it matters how far we’ve gone, we are always in the same place vis a vis ourselves. We don’t change – we are just as insecure as we were before. And those writers who aren’t, well, maybe they are just that little bit tougher, and maybe too, their words echo that toughness.
Sue, I’d rather hear gentle words – and by that I don’t mean ‘easy’ or ‘meaningless and pretty’ words. I mean words that are open to the world, observant, caring and generous words. Like yours.
Who wants to be well known? Nah. Look what it does to people! xxxx
Tim: another fascinating analysis. I may print this out and put it on my wall. But I may also throw darts at it from time to time 🙂
Vanessa: You’re wonderful. Thank you!
Your last words rang very true for me. I am dying to forget FB and blogging and promo correspondence and hide away with my laptop in the winter sun!