I’ve been reading Bob Lefsetz for a long time. He writes specifically about the music business, but he’s got something to say to anyone who wants to combine art and business. His passion is always for the art; like me, he believes that traditional business models for publishing, distributing and marketing art are pretty much dying on the vine, while the major book publishers music labels are blinking hard and saying Hey, what happened to our revenues? And he riffs. I like that.
The other day, Bob wrote this post about redefining success. Those who have been reading here for a while know that I’ve gone through some of this myself recently. And it’s still going on for me, as I ponder the balance between fiction and screenplay and management consulting and life, between security and freedom. As I fall in and out of fear. As I reach for a goal and sometimes get a fistful, and sometimes miss it altogether. I think many of us are engaged in our own redefinitions right now.
And I wonder how we will all define success on the other side? I’ll let you know what I come up with. And I’d be interested in hearing your postcards from this particular road.
I do know one thing for sure: Bob Lefsetz is right when he says You’d better enjoy playing.
And what if that is the real success?
I grew up under the pressure of great expectations, all of them feasible because I had aptitudes for anything from chemistry to music. But none of those dreams were mine. It took me at least two decades to realize that.
Playing is definitely “it” for me. But art has always been that way where I come from; it is certainly not a career in Mexico, it’s a hobby. And if you do it for a living, then you are one with the pariahs—more so than in any First World country I’ve experienced. Sure, some Mexican Maecenas may pick you up and pay your ways, but there’s a clear understanding that you are just part of the entertainment: a buffoon or a glorified waitress or a whore. I’m fine being either or all of the above if it gives me the means to keep playing.
Success, for me, is feeling happy and lucky at least three days out of every week, having food in the fridge or knowing someone will share their meal and conversation with me if I ask nicely, being able to stay warm, being able to read as much as I need, being alone every once in a while or for a long time, and having something to offer those I love. I’m almost there. I just need to figure out how to be alone a little more often, and learn how to not-mind having to waste my time and brain on things I consider useless but that give me credit I can spend on the Play Time department. I’m a spoiled brat. I definitely like to play.
This is heavy, but there always seems to be a disconnect between art and gold. Charles Dickens and Edith Wharton, among others, wrote some of their greatest novels as magazine serials. Of course there was no TV or movies, so a lot of “common” people read magazines and even books. Any way, at least the authors got paid by the word. I can’t tell you how much I admire you for continuing to write under such tough conditions. I know you feel compelled to write no matter what, but what’s wrong with a little adulation and a nice check?
barbara, there’s nothing wrong with adulation and a nice check. 😉
Thing is, both are hard to come by. Bob Lefsetz talks about it in his blog, and every artist knows he’s right. I think Lefsetz’s post is also about opportunities in a changing paradigm. Artists may have a really hard time becoming blockbusting celebrities these days, but they might also be able to make a living out of doing what they love if they find a niche. We’ll just have to do A LOT of art (for musicians, that means playing more; for writers, writing more), and doing so all the time.
When I taught at the film school, I often told my terrified students: “So you all know there’s no money in art. You have two options: keep whining and using it as an excuse to not-do-art, or you can figure out a way to pay the rent and still find the time and energy to do your thing no matter what.”
I don’t entertain dreams of greatness and recognition, either. Another reality of the film world. I also used to tell my students: “You all want to be directors. Think: how many of those do you need to make a movie? One. Two, at most. But you need a big crew of others. So ask yourselves if you could be satisfied as sound guys, or gaffers, or editors, or costume designers, or assistant somethings. Then you’ll have a better shot at getting a slice of the pie. And be prepared to serve a lot of coffee, clean a lot of shit, do a lot of heavy lifting. Because you won’t be starting at the top.”
Same goes for writing. It pleases me when the friend who hates everything she reads tells me, “Hey, I have to say I liked your short story.” That makes my day. And I love the intellectual thrill of the literary world, because authors’ minds are so bright. I want to be around. I don’t need to be in the director’s chair. I can serve coffee. I can pull cables. I can drive people around. And I can translate.
Karina, I am a world champion reader. Have book, will travel. I would love to be able to write, but I’ve tried it and I don’t think I have sufficient fire in my belly to plunk my butt down and do the work. But I am still compelled to read, read, read!
Barbara, it makes me green with envy to hear you talk about reading. One of the unexpected and unexciting consequences of my screenwriting / Humans At Work / job search mania lately is that I am not reading fiction hardly at all. Lots of interesting business books, and articles, and blogs, yadda yadda — but one reason I was compelled to post about Helen MacInnes the other day is that it was just so wonderful to read a novel.
Oh, my head hurts sometimes from all the things piling up inside me that I want to do.
Karina, I like to play too, but I am finding that I need more than that. Certainly this blog — more specifically, the conversations I have here, the way that sometimes we all connect around ideas or stories or each other’s observations — has become a part of my success. On some level I can’t just make art for myself, I have to know that others are finding value in it.
But I don’t necessarily need the money, although I wouldn’t turn it down. And I don’t necessarily need the fame, although I really like the occasional round of applause, and the respect of peers, and I really like the the knowledge that something from my head / heart has touched someone else’s head / heart. I do need that feedback.
And I totally get what you’re saying about finding one’s place in the creative experience (which is how I’m reading your lecture to your film students). Writing fiction, blogging, screenwriting are such different creative experiences. I love the solitude of fiction, the complete immersion in my self and the world that I’m making. I love the blogging because we’re all here talking, and I like that. And screenwriting and the creative relationships it is creating for me are not something I ever want to give up, even though sometimes I want to throw the entire film industry off a tall building. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before in a writing context. I love it.
But it’s not for the insecure or those who need a ton of fucking validation. I guess no creative collaborative process really is. I am learning those lessons aplenty right now, since in fact I do have my insecure days and my validate-me-baby moments.
Yep.
Cathryn Valente (hope I got that right) has a good essay over on Clarkesworld’s page (recent archives, non-fiction) about this very thing – gotta love the writing part of writing.
Like the Marge Piercy poem in the front of her writing book with Ira Wood, modified – “the work is its own cure. You have to love it better than being [paid, much, regularly].”
Easy to say as someone with a decent day job, but… still rings true.