I recently read a terrible book. Not “terrible” in any way relating to vice - very well intentioned - but terrible artistically. I will not describe or name it, as that’s not the point of the post. I’m sure you’ve read a terrible book at some point in your life, so assume it was that one. (Unless you are thinking of Gaudy Night. Then I will be forced to hunt you down.) But that book was published. People paid money to print it, and people have paid money to read it.
Terrible books unnerve me. (So do really great books, but for different reasons.) Terrible books invalidate all of my hopes of validation, my faith that, even though I can’t judge my own work, other people can tell me whether it’s good.
See, not everyone is supposed to be an artist. But as the annual rounds of American Idol auditions amply attest, not everyone who thinks they’re an artist is an artist. So when that little voice starts whispering that there are plenty of untalented people in the world, and who are you to think you’re not one of them...well, how do you know whether that’s “just” depression, or the depression is actually telling you the truth?
Not all opinions are created equal, of course. How about the opinions of people you trust, people whose own work you admire, people whom you try to emulate? Better, but still not good enough. You see, I used Gaudy Night for a reason, up above. If you were to pin me down to one favorite novel, that would probably be it. Now take a look at this:
“I could not stand Gaudy Night. I followed P. Wimsey from his attractive beginnings so far, by which time I conceived a loathing for him (and his creatrix) not surpassed by any other character in literature known to me, unless by his Harriet.”
That’s J.R.R. Tolkien. (It’s in a 1944 letter to his son Christopher quoted in The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien.) And it’s not just a matter of taste, not a “does nothing for me but I can see the merit in it” assessment. He genuinely hates it, and hates it much more strongly than I hate the unnamed, not-Gaudy Night book that inspired this post. If one of my literary idols loathes the work of another of my literary idols, then how can I be sure of anything? Maybe Tolkien would loathe my work, and maybe he’d be right. In fact, maybe that terrible book isn’t really terrible. After all, it was published. People paid money to print it, and people have… [Cue vicious circle.]
What’s an aspiring writer to do?
I reject the idea that there is no such thing as “bad art”. There are “singers” who cannot sing, “writers” who cannot write, and “actors” who cannot act. (If you’re thinking of Gary Oldman, I will be forced to hunt you down.) But if I can’t trust myself, and I can’t entirely trust other opinions, then how do I know whether I’m a writer or not?
And this matters. Spiritually matters. We will be held accountable for how we have used our time. If I’m not a writer, I should give up pretending to be one and go figure out what I’m supposed to do with my time.
I’ve actually tried that. Oh, how I have tried. Told myself I would be happier, calmer, and much nicer to the people around me if I gave up on writing all of these things no one will ever read. The trouble is, it doesn’t work like that. I wind up jonesing - literally, my fingers start tapping for a keyboard because someone who never existed and who never will exist is talking to me.
Perhaps this is where depression is useful, even a spiritual gift (although, like many spiritual gifts, it’s in a color you hate and you scour the box for the return receipt). It reminds you just how minuscule the odds of success are. And that hurts like all heck, but somehow it doesn’t make a difference. You write anyway.
“It had overmastered her without her knowledge or notice, and that was the proof of its mastery.”
Yes, that’s from Gaudy Night.
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