Yesterday morning I composed a post of wise and spiritual thoughts–at least they seemed to me at the time–but when the clock rolled around to 8:40 and I still hadn’t hit “publish,” I realized I would have to wait. School starts at 9:00. I was still in my pajamas. I’m the teacher.
Still the thing was pretty much done, and after school I would only need to do a quick read over and revision, plus a feature photo and a few technicalities like that, and the post would be good to go. Right before I jumped out of my chair–my beloved swivel desk chair, with imitation leather peeling from the padding in shreds–I checked my email.
That was a mistake. Because in my email was the first of the negative comments–ever so kindly worded–from the reviewers to whom I’ve sent out my book.
And that pretty much did me in for the day.
When I got home from school, I checked my email immediately. More comments had arrived. Some positive, some negative, some thought-provoking. All so…public.
I lay in bed for about three hours, recovering and checking my email every ten minutes or so.
“The pathetic thing is, if I had it to do all over again, if I could go back to 18 when I first decided I wanted to be a writer, I’d probably do it all over again,” I emailed a friend. “WHY?”
“But my dear, you are the quintessential artist,” she emailed back. “Quirky hypersensitive driven moody up and down. Just don’t cut off an ear or anything rash.”
Oh okay. So at least if I’ve been consigned to the realms of abnormal, it is in the company of artists, and there is solidarity in that. I’ve always wanted to be one of those, always wondered secretly if I couldn’t trade part of the wholehearted happiness and goodness in my life to be mysterious and lonely and wander around in a garden like Emily Dickinson or Flannery O’Connor or Vincent van Gogh. Though the latter wandered around in an asylum, not a garden, I’ve heard.
Now if you are reading this and happen to be one of the reviewers who graciously and kindly agreed to read my book–for free!–and give me your honest opinion, don’t get me wrong. I actually do want your honest opinion. I appreciate thoughtful insight, whether negative or positive, much more than glib praise.
And now that the initial shock of actually having real people read this thing has worn off, I will be fine.
I’ve realized three things:
- My book is not perfect. I think I sorta thought it was. But that doesn’t mean much; I’ve thought the same thing immediately after every thing I’ve written over the years, no matter how stilted or immature, and I’ve thought the same thing after every successive revision of this book. When I finally publish the thing, it still won’t be perfect. If I wait on perfection, the book will never happen.
- Not everybody will like my book. And that’s okay. Not everybody has to like my book. I like it, and maybe that is enough.
- My art is not the sum total of me. I actually have a life and do things besides write, sometimes. I actually think thoughts that are far outside the bounds of the people in my essays and stories. As realistic as I try to make my writing, it is still only writing. I am me.
I never did get around to cutting off my ear. I only put that in the title because I liked the sound of it and figured that if I am a quirky artist, I can do what I want.
Next week I’ll probably be feeling wise and spiritual again, and then I’ll publish my other post.
Wait for it.
***
Feature photo: “Vincent van Gogh – Self-Portrait – Google Art Project (719161)” by Vincent van Gogh
I sure like how you said this, Luci.
“My art is not the sum total of me” exactly! I appreciate when my blunt-ness and failures and feelings are accepted as part of who I am becoming in Jesus along with my crafting. I am just me trying to live out the new commandment same as everyone else.
Oh Luci. Amen and Amen. We KNOW our work isn’t perfect, and we WANT others to critique and suggest and help. SO WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE SO PAINFUL??? And why does one negative review or even tiny comment stick like a cockleburr to our obsessive little minds? Your 3 points are very good and true, but we still feel like cutting off ears sometimes.
Luci, I loved this! And I want to encourage you with the thought that at least you didn’t wait till you were thirty-eight to decide that writing was your gift. I’ve always known that writing makes me feel incredibly happy, sane, and content. But, it took bravery for me to admit it, and to think that I could succeed at writing a real book is beyond my comprehension. I want it so bad I can taste it tho, so regardless if it is ever noticed, reviewed or published, I must keep writing. You write because God gave that gift to you. Don’t ever quit because of people and their opinions. My family likes me better if I sort myself out with words. I suppose, because it makes me more real and less melodramatic. I assume this is the case with most writer personalities. SO, Cheerio my friend and keep on.
Incredibly happy, sane, and content. Yes. Thank you for your encouragement and the same to you. Grandma Moses started painting at 78, by the way, so don’t ever kid yourself that you started too late. Ultimately we write for ourselves…because God put it in us and we can’t do anything else.
And I want to read your book when it’s finished.
You know… I have thought of Grandma Moses. Thank you for that note of encouragement. If I ever do get that book finished; I will send you one. And like you say, we continue because it is what we are driven to do. I want a copy of your book when it is finally out for public consumption. :) I know it must be good, for you express yourself very well.
Pingback: I Am Not an Expert - Properties of Light