Dear Reader,
Recently, a measure of comfort and understanding came in the
form of an essay by Stephen Marche, “The Better You Write,
the More You Will Fail” (2-26-23, New York Times Book
Review, p. 23). In it, he writes about the high incidences
of rejection every writer and artist face and the wisdom that
can be gained from those experiences. We do succeed, but what
will happen when we face the next blank page or canvas? Rejection
of future work is more likely than acceptance. Marche cites
James Joyce and Herman Melville as examples of the struggle.
Two quotations come to my mind: Shakespeare’s “As
flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their
sport.” and Robert Frost’s “Happiness makes up
in height what it lacks in length.” Our stubbornness and
perseverance to take up the pen or brush is our response to
a fact of life: failure. I have grown to believe that the grit
of failure greases my creative spirit.
Choosing a writer’s or artist’s life means coming
to terms with long periods of being alone. Not only am I used
to it, but I also demand and appreciate big chunks of isolation
- to get the draft done, to begin revising, then to continue
revising. Even when out of my chair, I think about a structure,
a phrase, or a thorny word that just does not feel right. When
I am in the middle of a painting and a patch of space begs for
attention, I walk up to it and ask, “So, what’s YOUR
problem?” Before me is failure looking for success, or
at least a higher level of satisfaction. Failure is a necessary
part of the process, albeit an uncomfortable one. Why invite
discomfort into your life?
An idea that coexists with the need for aloneness and the acceptance
of failure is one that I heard at a book talk given by Abigail
Trafford, whose memoir High Time (TidePool Press) has
just been released. Trafford made one point in her talk that
has stayed with me: to survive, we need to have a team of others
who believe in us and want the best for us. How have I interpreted
this idea and made it work for me? I realize that my team members
can be living or not. As strange as that may sound, it is the
memory of people that consoles and encourages me every day.
My sister Jennie, my mother Josephine, and my grandmother Jennie
stand by me in the constancy of memory brought back by occasional
glances at their photographs or hearing a certain song. They
are on my team, as much as my husband John is and the people
whose voices I hear on the phone or whose words I read in emails.
Inviting the cold shoulder of isolation or failure is tolerable,
as long as I am in the embrace of my team.
