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Earlier in the summer, at a writing workshop in northern
California, I read a participant's brilliantly written short story. It was near
perfect in every single way except there was no courage in it and its heart was
underdeveloped.
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He was called on it. Another student in the group confronted
him. His eyes grew large. He cleared his throat. Around the room, heads bobbed
in agreement. A day later, he conceded, admitting that he was so busy showing
us how well he could write that he'd hoped no one would notice he'd left out
what was most important. He'd hoped that readers would be so distracted with
his masterful execution that they wouldn't demand more. Demand that he give the
same attention and level of excellence used in the presentation of his story to
what his story, at its core, was actually about.
Later in the week, at the faculty panel Q&A, an award-winning
fiction author expounded on our concerns. What I heard was this: If you, as a
writer, do not go through a change while writing your manuscript, then it does
not matter how well you wrote it. I went a step further in my understanding: If
at the end of writing your manuscript, your heart and your gut don’t feel as if
they’ve just been through the most arduous form of exercise known to humankind,
then don’t bother. Don’t bother even asking anyone to read it. Bury it. Start
over and see if you can’t mean it this time.
When I experience any form of art—film, literature, visual
or the performing arts—I expect not only rigor in its production and execution
but also heart and courage. I'm not talking about sentimentality or
sensationalism. I'm saying there are risks that must be taken, not only with
form, but also with content, or else I do not trust the work. If I'm not
invited to explore the depth, wonder and complications of my humanity, I'm
bored and annoyed. The more talented the artist/writer, the more frustrated I
am if I experience his work as shallow. Enough with aesthetic seduction! Enough
with going through the motions!
Does that make me holier than thou (me with my weighty
principles)? Absolutely not. Do I have the right to demand from others what I
demand from myself? That's a tricky one. Every artist has a right to her own
philosophies and intentions. My obligation is to my own definition of how and
why I create while clutching my truth. However, that does not stop me from ranting,
where in this city of Holy Faith, the volume of art available to consumers and
collectors is an avalanche.
As artists of all kinds—poets, photographers, playwrights,
musicians, filmmakers—what are we doing if we are not imbuing our work with all
the heart and guts we possibly have? Do we need to be faced with the
possibility of death in order to express the sincerity and totality of what it
means to be alive, actively engaged in the act of living? Have we become apathetic and addicted
to shiny surfaces while the truth of our humanity escapes us? If all we have is
this one life, what are we doing with it? What as artists—who employ voice through
a multitude of forms—are we creating? There are knives at our throats; after
all, isn’t that what mortality is? Create accordingly.
Santa Fe Reporter