Writing is an Act of Faith · 2:26am May 17th
TLDR: in which I do some somewhat philosophical ramblings about writing, because it's late, it's been a tough week, and I just need to get some words out. The power of the stream-of-consciousness essay should not be understated, even if it's completely counter to the premise of an essay.
I've long held that writing is an act of faith, if not the product of it.
This is not, generally speaking, all that radical of a statement. Many writers before me have expressed similar sentiments, and some have gone a step further and deified writing (in some cases, like Orwell, demonized it. There's a kind of irony in him being agnostic and saying, with the sort-of spiteful reverence we might see at the pulpit, "Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.") Of course, to attribute the art to a greater power is a bit lazy, at least in my view - there are no Muses, no gods of creation we must worship or express our gratitude towards. Any person who thinks that writing, or the art of it, derives solely from divinity (and indeed, you may take this to follow any artform, not just writing) probably doesn't understand or has yet to experience the other side of it: the work and drudgery and, oftentimes, sheer frustration that comes with engaging with the craft, routinely trying to understand it in order to express it.
Yet I maintain, with some cheekiness, that writing is still an act and a product of faith.
One begins to write with two premises in mind: that they have an idea worth expressing in the written form, and that they can write it in the form it so desires. There's no proof behind these premises. Nothing at the outset indicates either will be fulfilled. Even if one plans out or outlines the entirety of a story, there is no reason, so to speak, to believe the story will be written. But that's because writing is not an isolated act of God. It does not manifest through divine will, but rather, through the sloppy and cumbersome hands of, say, a guy with too much or too little (as is increasingly becoming the case) time on his hands.
The writer, then, must, in some fashion, form and then champion the object of their faith, in order to fulfill that faith. It's a bit counterintuitive, even cyclical. I'm reminded of an Ouroboros, that alchemical symbol representing the cycle of destruction and rebirth, but in my head, the writing equivalent is not something of eternal consumption, but rather, internal production. What it produces is its own religion, its own theology, one that is rewarded by, and then induces, faith in itself.
I make it sound romantic, even powerfully philosophical in this way, but I think that's just the poet in me. The truth is hardly so rosy.
If this is an act of faith, it seems to me that writing, much like any art, is uniquely suited to having its own faith in itself be tested. Every time we go to write something, we challenge the idea that we can write it. The premises appear as they always do and there is always a chance of failure. We may write and write and get absolutely nowhere, and thus, the faith that we'd been building falls apart, sometimes catastrophically.
And writers are, of course, sensitive creatures, so I suspect this kind of "dissolution" can have the effect of discouraging us from ever trying again, more than, in some cases, the harsh words of critics or our readership. I've never fully minded, though I won't lie and say I was never affected by, when someone comes to something I've written and dismantles or dismisses it. As they say, everyone's a critic, and that's just the hazard of the job; what you make won't appeal to everyone, and what everyone wants won't always appeal to your sensibilities. These many stories under my belt (and admittedly there aren't that many), along with my experience outside of writing, has made it easier to not necessarily accept criticism, but sift it, sort through it and determine what is going to help me next and what I can reasonably say, "Thank you, next," to. In such a scenario, I hold true to my own faith, while taking great pains to adapt it to account for new perspectives and opinions.
It's different, however, if the source of discouragement is ourselves.
I've some issue with the platitude, "We are our own worst critic," when applied to art. This is not a helpful idiom, because it masks an important aspect of the art and artist relationship: the artist knows that their product is God-awful. Oh, sure, there can be proof that the artist is a good one. Awards, recognition, and so on - but that little nagging voice that tells us, This is no good, this is awful, you're a hack, a sham - that's not some critic we can easily dismiss. That's ourselves. Our, shall we say, little goblin-friend, working the opposite function of a Muse.
It was Ira Glass, I believe, who said something to the effect that the new writer suffers because they have killer taste but no easy means of achieving work that is to that taste's liking. Their taste might be where their initial faith comes from, but the discrepancy between what's believed or desired and what ends up being written is so vast and poignant, it's easy to be discouraged. Maybe even necessary, too. Knowing what's inherently good and seeing how far we've got before getting anywhere near that has most assuredly pushed writers forward, has encouraged them to seek out a more comprehensive understanding of the craft; but it almost just as assuredly has held them back, made them afraid, shaken their faith, infected it with doubt.
Take me, for instance. Sometimes I still don't think I know what I'm doing, when I open up a document and start typing or editing. It doesn't matter if I've outlined or am just pantsing as I go along; sooner or later, I'm going to hit a block. I'm going to look up from my keyboard and suddenly think, "What the hell am I doing?" I'll look over the words and marvel at how bad they are, how much of a joke I am, and then end up having difficulty concentrating on getting any more writing done. I lose faith in my ability when I examine my ability up close.
I've got three projects in various stages of the writing process, and suddenly I am feeling like they're amounting to nothing. It's an awful feeling. Like a massive hole has opened up in me, and I hadn't realized just how big it was, nor how far I'd fallen in. Suddenly, I don't know if I'll be able to climb my way out, and falling in any further just seems to invite danger - that danger being, of course, a bad story. The Sunk Cost Fallacy is in full effect, here, and I have no idea how to stop it.
The funny thing is, I know I've been here before. Virtually every story I've written (I think it'd be more fair for me to say, all of the stories I've written) have had this moment in their creative process - the period of uncertainty, the "doubt" that must accompany faith for faith to be defined and realized. Given that those stories still ended up being written and published, it stands to reason that I've never been beaten by such doubts, and that, historically speaking, I've beaten it more times than it's beaten me.
But of course, telling someone, "You've been through this before, you'll get through this" is the kind of cliched platitude that helps no one while they're in the throes of maddening doubtfulness. That was then, they might say, but this is now. Now is different, now the danger is heightened, it was easy mode back then, I didn't know what I was getting into, etc.... All the while, the work stares back, waiting to be written, waiting to have its faith in itself either restored or thrown away.
Sometimes, I wish there was an easier way to prove to myself that I can do this than doing it - an easier way of demonstrating I can write that did not require me writing. But of course there isn't any other method but this. As Neil Gaiman put it, "This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It's that easy, and that hard."
I'm not sure why I wrote all of this, or if there's any coherence to it. Then again, that's sort of been my philosophy when it comes to writing. I don't know why I write anything, or if there's any meaning or cognizance or intelligence in what I write. Never at the beginning, and sometimes, not at the end, either.
But I end up writing anyway. It's not that these doubts don't matter - they do matter, they are part of the process, they keep me grounded but also pain me and cause me to question if I should just give up - but it's more like their significance can only be reckoned with by doing the opposite of what they suggest.
To write, one must both believe that they can and should write, and confront the very real possibility they can't and shouldn't. To have written, one must do both these things, and then still do the former anyway, and trust that they'll have finished something by the end.
It's faith, really. Faith in faith.
All writing is an act of faith - what other act could it be but this?
I really don't have anything helpful or insightful to add to the above (
a huge shocker, of course, coming from the "don't comment/post just to write meaningless fluff" ghost ). As witty and well-versed in intellectual discussion as I am, something like this rather puts me to shame. I do applaud the rightful debunking of the "you're done it before, you can do it again, sure" crowd especially.
Don't disagree with any of it – how could I, with several novel-length writing projects that I've never finished and published over the years? – but I sure can appreciate the need to wax about it, even if only to a small crowd. So, for what it's worth, I'm right there with you, bud.
Each person is the only one who can share their own ideas. If you won't write your stories, nobody will. For me, the act of not creating is almost the same as not existing. Without individual expression, the marks we leave on others, we're just bags of meat following animal instincts, avoiding death. Even if someone hates your work, they still read it, and that mean a little part of yourself has touched them.
On the one hand, there is a 'faith' that has to do with self-doubt. Can I do this? Is it too ambitious? Will it be any good?
These sorts of doubts, in my view, are probabilistic. With experience, one learns one's capacities and the rhythms of the creative process, and I do believe there are people who simply know how to write novels, no drama.
On the other hand, there is a kind of 'faith' that has to do with the perception that the muddle of one's life has any meaning at all, that there is some guiding hand or pattern at work in it, or that our basic experience contains everything we need to answer our profoundest questions and uncertainties.
Imagine, before going to bed, that you look back at your day, and ask: What was the sense of any of this?
This is the task of the writer, in a larger present moment within a particular time and place and people.
When one engages one's experience in this way, very often there is the sense of arriving at a wilderness. Yet at the same time something emerges out of it that was there all along but unseen, more coherent than something the mind might have devised on its own.
So how did it get here?
5781287
Hey, don't sell yourself short! This was a big word vomit kind of thing anyway, and just the fact that you found it engaging is enough of a reward.
Funnily enough, I used to be that crowd, relying on platitudes and reassurances. Then I realized with time that that kind of belief, while earnest, wasn't really helping me. It's the same with applying it to life - the assurance that, having experienced tragedy or difficulty before, one can get through them faster, is just plain foolish. Context is erased in the moment. Hindsight comes too late, and foresight never too early. Why should the sufferer, who is punished daily, be relieved by the fact that they were punished the day before?
5781379
I feel this in some form or fashion all the time, now, which is why having creative projects is really fulfilling, but having none progressing is a nightmare. I am, of course, then reminded of that one quote from, well, it could be any writer at this point, but whichever one runs as, "I could not imagine not writing; it just doesn't exist to me, to not write. I couldn't imagine anything else."
5781426
I haven't thought about the task of the writer in this way before. I think I need to sit and think on this for a bit. That... feels important, not necessarily because I believe it, but because it comes from someplace that feels authoritative, that feels like it is a belief derived from an experience unique to the craft, one that I would crave.
Thank you for sharing! I'm surprised my little word vomit earned such profundity.
Funnily enough (or sadly enough), back when I was doing reviews, this was usually the focus of my reviewing. I wasn't focused on grading likeability or believability. I was intrigued by the question of a story's function and wanted to attempt to work backwards, through reading a story critically, to answer that concern. I am unsure if every writer I reviewed "got it" or appreciated what I did; sometimes, I think I failed, or at least, could not really explain the impression I got beyond, ironically, the impressionistic. Still, it's a question worth considering, both as a critic and as a writer. I would like to think that we are a retrospective species; no matter what tense we choose, writers are historians of some sort, looking into the past of a story, and then, when the story is done and written, the writer looks back over it to determine where it came from and where it's going.