I am currently sitting at my desk drinking a cuppa and wondering if I am doing enough with my time. Time - ever omnipresent. Tick tock, tick tock, goes the clock. I am sure I am not the only person who has this feeling. It's not always in the forefront in my mind; it isn't really now, just something in the background, a shadow. It insists that I must make the best use of my time. Obviously, the type of activities change, but they often fall into two categories: Spending enough time alone (which tends to coincide with spells of being creative) and spending enough time with my loved ones (this tends to coincide with eating, walking and playtime). I am not sure where paid work falls into this. It used to be like time - all-encompassing, but it's become something more detached from me.
Anyway, despite being aware of these two hemispheres, and having practised living them for a number of years they don't always piece together very well to make a whole well-rounded spherical life. But that's ok - nothing is perfect. I am glad it's not, otherwise I would be really bored. Imperfection is what keeps me ticking, like the clock. The failure of things gives me something to improve on, or to interpret. Failures reveal things about myself and in turn reveal things about other people to me. Failure brings me closer to my friends, colleagues, family members and to humanity on a whole. It's a chink in the darkness, a black hole in paradise, revealing things about nature that I had not consciously recognised.
Today I read this fantastic article in The Guardian about failure and you can read it here. I have inserted the articles by Anne Enright and Howard Jacobson because I found them to be inspirational.
My favourite lines are:
Art is made by those
who consider themselves to have failed at whatever isn't art. Howard Jacobson
Success may be material but is also an emotion – one
that is felt, not by you, but by the crowd. This is why we yearn for it,
and can not have it, quite. It is not ours to hold. Anne Enright
Anne Enright
I have no problem with failure - it is success that makes me sad. Failure is easy. I do it every day, I have been doing it for years. I have thrown out more sentences than I ever kept, I have dumped months of work, I have wasted whole years writing the wrong things for the wrong people. Even when I am pointed the right way and productive and finally published, I am not satisfied by the results. This is not an affectation, failure is what writers do. It is built in. Your immeasurable ambition is eked out through the many thousand individual words of your novel, each one of them written and rewritten several times, and this requires you to hold your nerve for a very long period of time – or forget about holding your nerve, forget about the wide world and all that anxiety and just do it, one word after the other. And then redo it, so it reads better. The writer's great and sustaining love is for the language they work with every day. It may not be what gets us to the desk but it is what keeps us there and, after 20 or 30 years, this love yields habit and pleasure and necessity.
So.
All this is known. In the long run we are all dead, and none of us is
Proust. You must recognise that failure is 90% emotion, 10%
self-fulfilling reality, and the fact that we are haunted by it is
neither here nor there.The zen of it is that success and failure are
both an illusion, that these illusions will keep you from the desk, they
will spoil your talent; they will eat away at your life and your sleep
and the way you speak to the people you love.
The problem with
this spiritual argument is that success and failure are also real. You
can finish a real book and it can be published or not, sell or not, be
reviewed or not. Each one of these real events makes it easier or harder
to write, publish, sell the next book. And the next. And the one after
that. If you keep going and stay on the right side of all this, you can
be offered honours and awards, you can be recognised in the street, you
can be recognised in the streets of several countries, some of which do
not have English as a native language. You can get some grumpy fucker to
say that your work is not just successful but important, or several
grumpy fuckers, and they can say this before you are quite dead. And all
this can happen, by the way, whether or not your work is actually good,
or still good. Success may be material but is also an emotion – one
that is felt, not by you, but by the crowd. This is why we yearn for it,
and can not have it, quite. It is not ours to hold.
I am more
comfortable with the personal feeling that is failure than with the
exposure of success. I say this even though I am, Lord knows, ambitious
and grabby, and I want to be up there with the rest of them. Up! There!
The
sad thing is, when the flash bulbs do pop and fade, you are left,
in the pulsing after-light, with a keen sense of how unhappy people can
be with what they have achieved in life. Perfectly successful people.
With perfectly good lives. And you come to appreciate the ones who have
figured all that shit out. Meanwhile, and briefly, you are a "success",
which is to say an object, whether of envy or acclaim. Some people like
all that, but I, for reasons I have not yet figured out, find it
difficult. I don't want to be an object. I find jealousy unpleasant
(because it is unpleasant). I resist praise.
The writer's life is
one of great privilege, so "Suck it up", you might say – there are more
fans than trolls. But there are two, sometimes separate, ambitions here.
One is to get known, make money perhaps and take a bow – to be
acknowledged by that dangerous beast, the crowd. The other is to write a
really good book.
And a book is not written for the crowd, but
for one reader at a time. A novel is written (rather pathetically) not
to be judged, but experienced. You want to meet people in their own
heads – at least I do. I still have this big, stupid idea that if you
are good enough and lucky enough you can make an object that insists on
its own subjective truth, a personal thing, a book that shifts between
its covers and will not stay easy on the page, a real novel, one that
lives, talks, breathes, refuses to die. And in this, I am doomed to
fail.
Howard Jacobson
But you have to see failure as an opportunity. I took the route
favoured by all worldly failures and became a spiritual success. That
might be an inflated way of putting it, but failures are nothing if not
grandiose. If the world doesn't value us, we won't value the world. We
seek solace in books, in solitary and sometimes fantastical thinking, in
doing with words what boys who please their fathers do with balls. We
look down on what our fellows like, and make a point of liking what our
fellows don't. We become special by virtue of not being special enough. I
doubt many writers were made any other way.
Art is made by those
who consider themselves to have failed at whatever isn't art. And
of course it is loved as consolation, or a call to arms, by those who
feel the same. One of the reasons there seem to be fewer readers for
literature today than there were yesterday is that the concept of
failure has been outlawed. If we are all beautiful, all clever, all
happy, all successes in our way, what do we want with the language of
the dispossessed?
