When we look for a guarantee of success, we are asking to make risk-free art, and art, by definition, is risky. We are always seeking to express that which has not been expressed. One of the many difficulties with book treatments is that the finished book lacks the same zest as the treatment. Of course it does. We are saying twice what we have said once in the best way that came to us. Editors complain that sometimes a finished book bears no resemblance to the proposal they bought. This is because the writer was unable to replicate his proposal. Instead, like all real artists, he followed his muse into new and trickier territory.
Art for art's sake, like the wild mustang, has the power of attraction going for it. There is something irresistible about what cannot be owned. When we make art from the inside out rather than from the outside in, when we commit to letting the market find us rather than prematurely seeking the market, our art has a chance to incubate and become more powerful without the diluting effect of
outside influences. An artist is a sensitive and volatile creature. Easily discouraged, an artist can give up on a promising new direction if cold water is showered upon his dream. For this reason, all art-making deserves our protection. We call artistic creations brainchildren for a reason. When thoughts of the market are introduced too early, it is like bludgeoning a kindergarten pupil about getting grades good enough to go to college. This is not to say that we do not consider the market eventually, that we do not take timely steps to promote our art, but the key word there is timely, and as a rule of thumb it is better that we seek the market too late than too early.
Art is a time-consuming process, and in our youth-oriented culture of instant gratification, this is not a popular thing to say. I have had plays take fifteen years to get into production, novels that have taken a decade to make it into print. Sometimes the market needed to mature to match the material. Other times, the material needed to mature to match the market. Meanwhile, in the time elapsed, I wrote new things—with the result that, like many artists, I am wealthy with my own material. Novelist John Nichols worked a dozen years on his novel The Voice of the Butterfly. There was no contract guaranteeing that the book would ever be bought, and yet Nichols worked night after night, year in and year out, draft to draft, to assure its successful completion. The same can be said of all artists. It is the practice of our art form, and not the marketable product we produce, that warrants us the name artist.
BUILD IT, AND THEY WILL COME
Try this: Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 10. Finish this phrase as rapidly as possible:
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
7. If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
8. If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
9. If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
10. If I believed in a benevolent universe, I'd try
Some of what you've been procrastinating about may surprise you. Select one action from your list and begin it.
Achieving Altitude
La Veta Pass, altitude 9,413 feet, drops down from Colorado into the San Luis Valley, which in turn opens to the hunting grounds near the Costilla River and the entry to New Mexico. Although state lines look arbitrary and neutral when viewed on a map, when experienced driving they often mark perceptible shifts in territory and terrain. Both Colorado and New Mexico are mountainous, but the Colorado peaks are the jagged, masculine Rockies, while New Mexico's contours are more rounded and feminine. "The Land of Enchantment," New Mexico is called, and it lives up to its name. Wreathed in clouds like the Dance of the Seven Veils, New Mexico lacks Colorado's macho bravado and attains instead an aura of mystery. It is no accident that so many artists make their homes in New Mexico. The constantly changing landscape is a good match for the creative psyche. In New Mexico, nothing looks today exactly as it did yesterday. The same shifting weather accompanies a long creative project.
Seasoned artists know the wisdom of ignoring each day's opinion of the unfolding work. A dark mood can color critical perceptions. Today s junk may be tomorrows gold, as a sunnier mood makes the work look worthwhile. Because our emotional weather is so capricious, we must learn to let it pass through without acting destructively on its invitations. Brahms destroyed twelve string quartets. He left only three. Beethoven refused to dignify many
fine early works with an opus number. His legacy? A welter of conflicting manuscripts, corrected and corrected again. Bach, on the other hand, had to write a weekly cantata for the church where he worked. Too pressed by deadlines to have time for negative critical considerations, he routinely produced masterworks.
"Julia," I am often asked, "what if you are unblocking a lot of bad artists?" I think this is the wrong question. In my twenty-plus years of teaching, I have far more often seen fine artists hang back, hamstrung by low self-worth. A quick glance at the market is enough to convince almost anyone that it is often artistic nerve, not merit, that moves someone center stage. That being the case, we need to temper our self-destructive tendency to overcensor.
Andrew has written several novels, but none of them measured up to his inner standards for "good work." He loved to write and was afraid to publish. His novels enjoyed one another's company in a large bottom desk drawer. Andrew's publishing history might have continued this way, except for the timely intervention of a new friend. "Come on, Andrew," she wheedled, "let me read at least one." Andrew relented, and gave her an early novel to read. "But this is good" his friend exclaimed, returning the manuscript. "I don't see why you don't publish!" Andrew told her a sad story about his one rejection letter. "You let that discourage you? I don't believe you!" she gasped. "Let me read another one." Andrew dug out a second novel. "I like this one better than the first!" his new reader told him. "I really don't understand you. These should be published. What else have you got?" Before a month was up, Andrews new friend had read all of Andrew's writing. "There's no reason any of this shouldn't be published" was her firm opinion. "Let me make submissions for you." Reluctant but
curious, Andrew agreed, provided he himself was sheltered from the rejection process. Do I need to tell you that Andrew is now published, and hard at work on a new book?
Very often, it is our low self-worth, not our high standards, that keeps us from entering the fray. Like Andrew, we love our work and hate rejection. We hate it so much, we avoid the possibility of rejection. And when we do that, we avoid the possibility of acceptance as well.
In the winter, La Veta Pass is treacherous with ice. But travelers traverse it anyway, driving with great care. As creative travelers, we, too, can learn to traverse hostile conditions. We can make deals like Andrew did, and have a friend filter our creative lumps. Left to our own devices, many of us are shy—far too shy for our own creative good. It is for this reason that we need to enlist our friends as Believing Mirrors. We can learn to make the sandwich call, a call to a friend before doing something difficult, and a call to a friend afterward, saying, "I did it." It is part of our mythology about artists that artists are loners. This is not really true. What did the Impressionists paint? Lunch with one another. Artists have always needed encouragement, and wise artists learn to seek it out.
Fiona, an English actress, was making good strides in her London career but longed to come to America. Although she liked the stage, her true love was film, and Hollywood was where most movies were made. For two years Fiona dreamed of going to Hollywood. But she didn't actually do it. It was only when one of her theatrical directors assured her that he knew she could make it in film that Fiona gathered her courage and made the big leap across the Atlantic.
"Sometimes I think I'm a little crazy"—Fiona
laughs—"being an English redhead in a world of bottle blondes, but most of the time I know that I've done the right thing. I'm just grateful I found the support that let me do it."
Sometimes the support that "lets us" do our art is external. More often, the support must be internal, a realization of our right to artistic actualization—the psychological fruit of Morning Pages, Artist Dates, and Walks.
ACHIEVING ALTITUDE
Being Festive
Try this: Many times, we know a way we could advance our work, but we are too shy or frightened to try it. We hang back, waiting for that magic day when putting ourselves forward will be easier. As a producer remarked of staging musicals, "Whoever said it would be easy?" Take pen in hand and list five "next steps" you could take in support of your art. To do this, fill in the following phrase as rapidly as possible:
A next step I could take for my art is
A next step I could take for my art is
A next step I could take for my art is
A next step I could take for my art is
A next step I could take for my art is
It is Fiesta weekend in Taos. Traffic clogs the tiny streets. The ancient plaza overflows with tamales, tacos, and craft stands. Mariachi bands elbow out country-and-western and rock-and-roll. The sidewalks are thronged with tourists and locals. At midday, the police close the streets and the Fiesta parade unfurls itself. Float after float passes by with waving, dark-eyed Hispanic beauties. A troupe of Native American dancers prances past, fueled by two large tomtoms. Hundreds of horses dance skittishly, unnerved by the crowds and excitement. Pickup trucks are angled along the parade route, and observers clamber on their hoods and beds to get a better view. Fiesta is a visual spectacle: Colorful serapes cover hay wagons; cherub-cheeked children clutch piniatas and small American flags. It seems every business has a float, and every float has a cheering section. Young lovers, arms entwined, whisper to each other as cowboys and conquistadores clatter past. Like the tamales sold in the plaza, the parade is tasty.
Any sustained creative career requires a varied diet. As artists, we must seek out creative snacks. We must develop an appetite for a smorgasbord of creative fare. The parade, with its succulent tamales, might alternate with the cool sorbet of a chamber music ensemble. A traveling troupe of singing monks might offset a bout of children's theater. Art is an image-using system. Whenever we draw from our inner well, we must take care to restock it with
new sights and sounds, new smells and tastes, new images for our artist to draw on.
Mitchell, a fine-arts photographer, lives in a loft in Chicago. His winter months are spent in urban surroundings, but every summer he takes to the road, camera in hand. The lonely reaches of Colorado, the well-polished boots and saddle gear of a cowboy, the deeply etched map of a Native American elder's face—these are the sights he trains his summer lens upon. A quarter century's experience as a photographer has taught Mitchell the importance of keeping a fresh eye. He doesn't want to go stale. His best work has an edgy originality, a newness no matter what the subject. His eye is kept fresh deliberately.
Emma, an arranger, credits a habit of road trips for giving her new musical ideas. "The more I look at, the better I arrange," she has remarked. And often, when she is stuck on a piece, she will get behind the wheel of the car for even a brief drive to town and come back with her musical ear refreshed.
Sights and sounds seem to help us no matter what our art form. Art is sensual, and when we consciously work to keep our senses alive, we are rewarded for our efforts with better art.
"As a novelist, I need a great deal of specificity," remarks Julian. "For writing to ring true, it must have sufficient detail. For me to write well, I must consciously refill my inner well of images. Driving, hiking, jogging—these things all help me. I have learned that what I put before my eyes comes straight out of my pen. When my eyes are stale, so is my writing."
Ours is a colorful world. It is filled with places and characters that can capture our imagination. The tiny Fiesta parade, winding its way to the town's ancient plaza, is just one such sight. Who
would want to miss the golden palomino bobbing its snowy mane as it prances sideways up a small hill? Its rider wears a purple conquistador cape and a look of stern pride. A small black lamb and a larger gray one are ushered along the side of the street. They are the same size as the tiny burros pulling their gala flower-laden carts. During Fiesta, everyone is on holiday. Shopkeepers smile and loll in doorways. Tourists and natives alike stroll the streets. Music of many kinds fills the air from all directions. "Aqui en Taos!" someone shouts—Here in Taos.
BEING FESTIVE
Try this: The part of us that goes on Artist Dates might be called our inner explorer. It is an adventuresome part of the personality, daring to risk and to reach out. This part of us needs and deserves to be encouraged. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 10. Finish the following phrase as rapidly as possible:
1. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
6. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
7. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
8. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
9. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
10. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
If it weren't too risky, I'd try
If it weren't too risky, I'd try
4. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
5. If it weren't too risky, I'd try
Seasons
Last night it snowed in Angel Fire. In Taos, the night was merely chilly—but autumn's coming. On the high ridges near the Ski Valley, the first aspen leaves are tinged with gold. The high mountain creeks are icy—even the Rio seems cold for a swim. Summers are brief in the high mountains. Autumn is long, golden, and glorious. We will not be staying for autumn this year. One of our musicals is being staged in New York, and it is time to pack the car for the long cross-country drive. This time we will take a southern route, looping through Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri. The dogs are alert, eyeing the growing pile of luggage waiting to be taken to the car. They know this routine and are eager to get on with it. If they love Taos, with its river swims and expansive dog yard, they love New York, with its passing parade of fancy dogs and fancy owners. They will hunt pigeons again on Riverside Drive. The season has changed.
All creative lives have seasons, and we must learn to weather them. For me, the mountain summer has been a good season of writing—music in the mornings, prose in the afternoons. The autumn in New York will be a time of harvest. The seeds planted last year are bearing fruit. It seems to have taken forever, but the musical being staged, The Medium at Large, took only four years from its lightning strike of conception to its time on the stage. Four years is not very long in a creative life. I have been working at an opera
now for five years, going on six. It will take at least two more years to complete it, although one of the great happinesses of the summer is that a finished first draft travels back with us to New York.
As artists, we must be in it for the long haul. We cannot measure ourselves by one season's success or failure. This year's novel may not see print for a decade. Last year's play may suddenly be called to the fore. It is a mistake to hook our work too closely to the mood of the market. Both the market and its mood will change. Work that is not in style at the moment will be in style again. We need patience.
Patience is not a trait that comes to most of us easily. Ours is a restless nature. This restlessness urges us to create. It is the first cause of books, plays, sonnets, and songs. But a career in the arts is a lot like marriage. It is worth learning patience for. It took me a decade to formulate the essays in my book Walking in This World. Sophy Burnham labored a decade on The Treasure of Montsegur. For two years now, Natalie Goldberg has been at work on a nonfiction memoir of her spiritual life. My sister, a portrait artist, is finally overbooked with commissioned works—this after a scant twenty years in the studio.
Most overnight successes in th
e arts have nothing overnight about them—except for the fact that the sun of success now shines on them after a long, dark period of self-doubt. It has been said that all of success can be boiled down to two simple rules: the first, start something; the second, keep going. In Alcoholics Anonymous, there is a grim joke that the working definition of an alcoholic is "someone who drinks five minutes before the miracle." The point, of course, is to hang in, and the same advice might be given to artists.
A friend of mine, a sculptor, is in one of what he calls his "ugly-duckling periods." His work is changing, and its growth period is awkward. My friend has been sculpting for thirty years. He knows that growth is an ungainly process, and that sometimes we must do "bad" work to get to good work again. It is the same for me with writing: I will write along at a certain level, and then, one day, abruptly, my syntax will collapse. I'm in another growth period where nothing I write sounds quite right. Eventually, my style comes back together again, and up a notch—but that's eventually. My job, like all artists, is to hang in there while my syntax resembles pickup sticks.
They are predicting heavy snow for this winter. "They" are the mountain sages, elders who have lived here a long time and experienced seasons of drought and rain. The extra moisture would be good for the valley. The drought burned the needles on many evergreen trees. Good snow would restore them to health. In the long view, it all balances out. But that is in the long view. It is our job to find it.
SEASONS
Try this: Most of us are adept at seeing what
we fail to do. We are not so accomplished, or
accustomed, to counting what has been done.
And yet, self-worth can be built upon a bed
rock of creative actions well taken. Take pen
in hand. This is your creative resume. Set aside
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