The Exquisite Vulnerability of Creating
Or, let's see how many Sean Penn memes Gretchen can use.
Last week I had a book event and the question was, "How do you deal with the vulnerability of writing and releasing your work to strangers you know are going to judge it?"
I chuckled, then answered, “I don't know if I'm feeling more vulnerable this year, or if I’ve reached a new stage of my work, but I've been thinking about this question a lot.”
Thing is, releasing a book—or any work of art, really—into the world is like wearing your skin inside out and pretending you’re fine. Only, being inside out is not fine. It might be fine if all goes well, but it also might end up hurting like a shitdamnmotherfucker.
And yet, artists perform this self-torture again and again because we can't help it. And the universe demands we create. He/She/It created artists because the world needs them. The world needs to observe a person walking the street with their skin turned inside out.
Um, why’s that, Gretchen?
I’m glad you asked.
“Mr Hand, do you have a guy like me in all your classes? You know, a guy you make an example of?” – Jeff Spicoli
I grew up with a sister with down syndrome. Somewhere in the eighties, our school district decided to integrate special needs students into "normal" classrooms. (As if normal is the true state of any classroom; I’m looking at you, Spicoli.)
The goal was to provide a better educational experience for all by fostering an understanding of the individual. That we humans can’t learn to accept the “other” until we're forced to interact.
Wasn’t this essentially Harvey Milk's philosophy about coming out?
“Once they realize that we are indeed their children, that we are indeed everywhere, every myth, every lie, every innuendo will be destroyed once and for all.” — Harvey Milk
I’m clear about the philosophy with which I approach my work: I want readers to come out of my books feeling a little bit better than they went in. Everything I create, I create with that in mind.
In other words, I’m willing to put myself out there because I know what I’m trying to do.
If I reach my goal, it’s worth an afternoon or two with my skin turned inside out. People feel better because of what I put on the page. I believe—and I think the Universe agrees—the world needs as much groovy groovy happy fun time as it can get.
It wouldn’t be hard to accept the temporary discomfort of vulnerability if I knew it was going to pay off.
But I don’t know that. And sometimes, it doesn’t. Hard.
There are so many ways for your work to get rejected. Commercially, of course—how many artists make a living at it? Critically, too—even though they say “ignore your critics,” everyone’s a critic these days. The internet begs you, nags you to “tell us what you thought!”
Oh, and let’s not forget the people who think they’re giving you a compliment but end up breaking your heart. Do you know what sends me spinning in my stockings? When readers call my books “cute.” Oh, my cockroaches, I don't know why that description bothers me so much, but it makes me want to scratch my eyeballs with fishhooks.
A hairstyle is cute. A crayon drawing of a puppy is cute. Even a puppy is cute. None of those things took as long to create as it took to write my book. The word is infantilizing, and only literary geniuses the likes of Virginia Wolf or Fannie Flagg (yes, genius, fight me) have the right to infantilize my work.
Where have I gone off-topic? Ah, yes… the mystery of why we create despite the potential pain.
I create because I lose myself in the work. Today while working on book 4, the words came out faster than my fingers could type. I wanted to catapult myself into another dimension and live with the characters.
I also believe that as humans, we all exhibit the need to create. For some, it's the need to create order out of chaos. For others, it's the need to create understanding. Or meaning. Or cars, or a profit, or a controversy. We are all driven to create something.
Me? I'm driven to create stories. Stories that make people cry and then smile and then want to buy another one.
So perhaps the question I need to answer for myself is this: Would I create these stories even if no one (or hardly anyone) buys them?
The honest answer is maybe, and maybe not. So then, why do I create, really?
Writing is what I'm good at. I like it when people look at me and say, "Hey! You're good at that. Do it again." I learned to use my writing as a big glowing orb I can hang over my head. "Over here, guys! Look at me."
Remember that thing about growing up with a sister who had Down Syndrome? I love her. I consider myself to be a better person because I was forced to grow up learning empathy for others. But I'm also aware that she stole much of my childhood spotlight. That's not her fault, and it's not my parents' fault. It's life.
Maybe that's why I write, too. Because it’s therapy. And because I know how much other people need to laugh and smile and cry as much as I do.
So, fellow human and creator, what’s got your skin on inside out? And what are you doing to keep your creator self safe?
Because it's apparent to me that we're all doing something vulnerable. One only needs to sit in a book event and hear, "How do you deal with the vulnerability that comes with writing a book?" to recognize we’re not alone.
It’s meaningful to understand why each of us is here doing what we’re doing when and where we’re doing it. If you think about one thing after reading this piece, think about that.
Last week, with that question about vulnerability, something in me changed. The reader may as well have walked up to me and said, "I see that you're not perfect, and neither am I. But I'm so proud of both of us for keeping on."
I am keeping on. Because I have these letters that I spin into words that I spin into tales.
I'm proud of you, too. Whoever you are reading this. You may be one person, and there may be a thousand of you. Regardless. Good for us for keeping on.
Let’s go.
As always and until next week, be well, and read often.
Gretchen
P.S. Bonus points to whoever correctly identifies this Sean Penn gem!