I am very happy I am a creative person. That
is what I have always said: I am a
creative person. I have never called myself an artist, so I decided to think
about why. (Prepare yourself: I am going
to generalize, that’s how I express theory.)
To be an artist
is something many seek. It is a highly admired profession. People use the word
to describe themselves based on their lifestyle, source of income or ambition.
(I believe “source of income” is the only valid reason of the three.)
But perhaps
because I write, I like to use words precisely. The word “artist” is a fuzzy
descriptor that can be earned or self-determined or earned. When I use the
word, I usually precede it with the words “professional” or “amateur.”
I prefer the
word I use: Creator. It’s a good one; it’s the one we use for Him or Her.
Creators seek
two things: Mastery of their chosen medium and respect/praise. They passionately
and obsessively do little other than invent/create. Praise/respect sneaks up on
the greatest of them, it seems to me, and yields its rewards — respect, wealth
and fame.
Those lesser blessed are more strategic
about obtaining their respect. Consequently, it is often they who make the most
money; their commitment to financial success or media visibility is equal to,
or dominates, their creative drive.
My talent is average but diverse. At least I
was able to professionalize it. Modestly endowed artists like me can easily
earn fame or money but it is hard for us to earn respect and, therefore, to
feel the hot flame of pride.
My creativity is best expressed in the
alphabetic medium. I earned my living as a technical writer; my most lucrative contract
lasted twenty-seven years. My thousand-word monthly editorials earned me almost
three-quarters of a million dollars. A (text) book I wrote earned me well over
a hundred grand. (I still cannot believe
that.)
I took pride in
my earnings but self-respect eluded me. The ebb tide of the Bay of Fundy is
nothing compared to the depth of my low self-esteem. That may be one reason,
but there is another: I felt my success was based on the content of my writing,
not the writing itself. Technical writing did not fulfill me no matter how much
it earned me. Why? The content came from my brain.
I took math at
a local university when I was eleven. I knew I had a good brain, but the
recognition I earned from the creative writing and art I made in school gave me
far greater pride — hence my career decision.
The soul is a mysterious thing. It’s often
referenced in conversation and in the media, but what is it? And where is it? If
we “accept” the concept of a soul, I find it to be the right repository in
which to site our creativity. Although intelligence certainly enhances
creativity, I cannot site the brain as the home of imagination.
That is why my most
satisfying income, a mere $1,500, came from licensing my screenplay. Although the
film won’t be made, I sold entertainment,
not information. The pride, the fulfillment, coming from selling the rights
to Uncle Gus’ Monkey (SGM) is largely
because the buyers came to me. I did not go to them. It was incredibly
rewarding to receive praise I did not seek.
However, it was
autobiographical and that feels a bit like a cheat to me because
autobiographical writing is technical writing when it is not absolutely
masterfully written and technical writing gets no respect—not from me or
externally. It’s when writers use their experience to create fiction that they
earn the respect that all creators seek (or so it seems to me).
So … if there
were one thing left for me to accomplish, it would be to write something even
more abstracted from my own life than SGM.
I’m trying to do that now. But if nothing comes of it, I don’t care. That’s how
great selling SGM was for me; my
pride in that accomplishment is enough to get me into artist’s heaven.
Thank God for
that. I ‘ll be going out content.
(Click on an image to see them better. Pause on the New Yorker cover.)