Why do you write?
And how to measure your artistic progress.
Writing for validation
I always struggle before I start writing because I think I should create something that as many people as possible can identify with. This is why the vast majority of my texts don’t even come out of drafts: they are always about me. And as someone who has developed a (perhaps) somewhat exaggerated introspection throughout life, I don’t think I can captivate many readers by talking about the things I have lived through — especially since most of my experiences have been limited to the four walls of a single room and my fertile imagination for almost 25 years.
I had opportunities to better explore the outside world, and some of them I even used, but it seemed that even if I went out, I always came back to the same place, and outside I found nothing more exciting than my own company (Narcissus sends his love).
Fantasizing about reality makes things more bearable, I guess. Well, it definitely makes things more interesting. At least until you, one day, in your mid 20s, realize that you have stopped living reality because you have clung to fears, pride, and insecurities that were never really yours. And so begins a very painful process: acceptance.
When I took off the rose-colored lenses I used to see life, I realized that my room was too small; my independence felt more like loneliness, and people had more to offer me than I wanted to admit. Some of them offered me more disappointment, it is fair to mention, but many others could offer me more love and more validation than I, alone, could ever imagine.
Accepting that reality is not that pretty and that we are not that strong requires a lot of self-care, because there are two main paths when we find ourselves immersed in a difficult situation: on the one hand, the depreciation of everything there is, including ourselves, and on the other, the driving force for change.
Either path, however, can be destructive without self-care, since change does not intrinsically denote a positive value. Change can be for the worse — especially if our internal dialogue is derogatory.
Anyway, back to the act of writing, I wonder how I can expect dozens or hundreds of people to identify with a reality that only existed within me and, at most, extended to a single room in a house or to one or two social networks? And more than that, why did I want to write for other people? Did I want to prove something to someone? Or is that what art is really about: showing a bit of yourself to whoever is lucky (or unlucky) enough to stumble upon one of my texts?
Art as a path (and not as a goal)
The other day I had one of those rare conversations in which we feel we are in the right place at the right time, with the right person. The subject was precisely this: producing art for oneself and for others. And I heard one of the most brilliant artists I know tell me:
“as an artist, my biggest dream is to produce things for me and in my own way, and that people will value my art precisely because of that, because I made it, and there’s a little bit of me in there.” — H.W.
To be fair, he may have used other words, but I believe the essence of the message remains unchanged.
And, wanting to be a writer for as long as I can remember, I realized that I too have that same dream. I want to write the world from my perspective — not because it is better than others’, but because it is the only thing in this world that is truly mine.
Only I have experienced exactly what I have experienced. And I want people to be able to read that thing that is so mine and get some value out of it to go on with their own lives without even needing to know my name. For me, it doesn’t matter that I remain anonymous, as long as my work serves someone.
And if the goal is this — genuineness — art is, so subtly and yet so vehemently, the very path, and not the end. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it from that perspective before… true artists produce about themselves and, perhaps, for themselves. And the truth is that this is the value of their art.
How do I progress as a writer, then?
Through authenticity. Simple, and although it is broad, it is also very objective. And not as easy as it sounds, in my personal experience. Having a list of priorities and accomplishments might be easier to narrow down.
In the case of authenticity, however, it is a bit more complex, because it is not a measurable goal, such as getting followers, but an abstract concept and one that is defined through different forms, sources and traits depending on the individual who is pursuing it — in this case, me.
Being genuinely who I am challenges me every day, even in daily decisions that seem simple. From the clothes I choose to wear to the cleaning product I prefer to buy, and more deeply, from the words I choose to say to those I prefer to silence: all of these (and even more) demonstrate my authenticity.
Or, when I choose clothes, products, and words to please looks and opinions that are alien to my will and free expression, they demonstrate my fear — of not being accepted, of not being loved, of not being taken seriously.
Being authentic and true to who I am, even if I am constantly changing myself to be someone better (whatever “better” means), requires much more focus than boldness, because it is more an exercise in constancy and persistence than courage.
If I sing out loud in the street once because I felt like it, that is boldness; if I sing in the street, day after day, because somehow it makes me feel closer to who I am, and without people’s stares bothering me, that is authenticity. It requires the effort of repetition rather than bravery, in my opinion.
Genuineness also requires internal acceptance and validation. But who has learned to produce them? From a very young age we are brought up to think that we should seek these two feelings outside first, and then find ourselves worthy of feeling them inside. The way we dress, the places we go, even the thoughts we repeat: very little of it is really ours. Most of it is an unconscious reproduction of behaviors undertaken in order to secure acceptance in the communities we frequent.
And let me tell you… the search for validation from others is eternal, to say the least. That’s why this “logic” is actually a lot of nonsense. We will never be able to please everyone all the time, so why put all our efforts into this thankless task?
The other way around must be much more productive.
If I accept and value myself so much that it no longer matters what others think of me, then my search ends here. And I can use all this self-acceptance to create more of me: more of my writing, more of my wants, more of my stories.
I want to be so "me" that people know, as soon as they look at me, hear me, or read my words, that any move against me will be a big waste of time. And I want to be so me that only those who accept me as much as I intend to accept me will want to be around — no games, no interests, no mistrust.
I want to be around people who also accept themselves so much that I look at them and am not intimidated, but inspired. That is how I am measuring my progress. In my writing and in every expression of my soul.
This is how I measure my artistic progress
Of course I can’t put “authenticity” on a piece of paper and mark a “check” when I think I’m authentic enough, as if that’s an item you buy in a store.
No… to measure authenticity I will use a single tool: presence.
I will have to ask myself a single question every day (or even more frequently than that): am I becoming more of who I am? And if the answer is “yes,” I know I am making progress.
If the answer is “no”, well… then the road is a little longer. But it is also part of who I am, after all the sea makes the sailor, or something like that (I don’t know much about popular sayings). And now that I wrote it I realize that this particular saying is used in another context… But I thought it fit well here and, hey(!) this is my text ;)
When I answer “no” I will have to ask myself “how can I become more of who I am?” and the scary (or is it beautiful?) part is that the answers don’t exist anywhere in the world yet. I will have to create them.
Now that I'm thinking about it, this seems less scary than it is promising: if I am the one who is going to create the answers, they can be exactly what I want them to be, right? (I will probably have to come back later to confirm or rectify this theory.)
Anyway, I don’t know how many people this text will find or even if it will find anyone, but I do know that in the next few years I will come back to it and think something like “wow, I really made it!”
That or “gee, what a lunatic…”.
Sending you love, dear reader!
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