Secrets of Creative Longevity

— The process itself is the most dependable reward —

I don’t write novels in hopes of scoring rave reviews. To do so would probably be self-defeating anyway, resulting in books that reeked of contrivance and dishonesty, books devoid of the necessary personal urgency that makes fiction resonant.

Still, when my debut novel elicited a wave of praise, I felt buoyed. And by turns, when my second novel evoked consternation for breaking certain rules, confusion for being dense and unconventional, or sheer impatience for not being a beach-read, I found it hard to escape feeling downcast.

On a conscious level I knew better than to take such asinine critical complaints seriously. I didn’t write the novel for reviewers, and even suspected early on that they wouldn’t “get it.” (In fact, I’d pledged to avoid reading reviews altogether, and for the most part kept this pledge.) But alas, it’s all too easy to know when one’s work is meeting with indifference or scorn.

While not really caring who disliked my book, why couldn’t I shake off this critical reproach? Like I’ve said, my reasons for making literary art were and are entirely personal. I share John Steinbeck’s sentiments and write because

I feel good when I am doing it — better than when I am not. I find joy in the texture and tone and rhythms of words and sentences, and when these happily combine in a ‘thing’ that has texture and tone and emotion and design and architecture, there comes a fine feeling — a satisfaction like that which follows good and shared love. If there have been difficulties and failures overcome, these may even add to the satisfaction.

In other words, the work itself is always the best reward. This holds true for me when I think back to the glowing critical reception of my first book. I may have felt buoyed by the praise that novel received, but that was nothing — absolutely nothing — compared to the elation that came of creating the book’s characters, discovering its story, painting its world, and wrestling with its themes.

The longer I lead this literary life, the clearer it becomes to me: reviews ought to have no effect on a novelist or other artist, for the challenges and triumphs entailed in the process of creation will give the artist as much artistic agony or ecstasy as he or she could ever want.

Rainer Maria Rilke (the main character in my latest novel) once wrote:

Young person anywhere, in whom something is rising up that causes you to shiver, make use of the fact that no one knows you. And if they contradict you — those who take you for a nobody; and if they give you up completely — those with whom you would associate; and if they pretend you don’t exist on account of your dear ideas: what is this clear danger, which holds you together inside yourself, compared to the cunning hostility of later fame, which makes you impotent by scattering you? Beg no one to speak of you, not even contemptuously. And when time goes by and you mark your name coming around amongst people, take it no more seriously than everything else you find in their mouths. Think: it has become poorly. And put it away from you. Take another name, any, so that God can call you in the night. And hide it from everyone.

There’s a lesson in longevity here, for any who will listen.

And speaking of longevity, this archived NPR interview features one of the most prolific writer/filmmakers of our era, the legendary Woody Allen, then 72, offering his own perspective on matters of success and reputation:

-NPR: Do you think you’ve learned anything about how to persist, how to keep creating, how to keep challenging yourself?

Allen: …The only thing that I think I have learned over the years (but it wasn’t when I got older, I learned it when I was younger) was, if you don’t think about yourself creatively, it’s better. If you just keep your nose to the grindstone, don’t read your reviews, don’t believe them when they tell you you’re great, don’t worry if they tell you you’re no good, don’t get caught up with awards, don’t get caught up with all the peripheral nonsense of the business, grosses, high grosses or low grosses. Just shut up and make your movies. And that really works fine. That’s the only thing I’ve learned. I learned it many years ago. I was young, and I never learned anything since.

Now back to the grindstone I happily go.

(This post comes from the Soul Shelter archives)

You might also enjoy:

Fulfillment: A Work in Progress

Trust Thyself

What We Really Need to be Happy

In the Absence of ‘Yes’

The Happiness Issue