Success is word that almost makes me cringe. For me, success is both an unattainable pipe-dream and an all too easy cop-out. You can look at a piece of writing, turn it this way and that, pick at it like an old scab until you feel like you’ve failed as a writer, failed to create that success you so desperately desire. You can just as easily look at a piece of writing, slap it to the table, and say, “I’ve tried my best, and I think it is a success.” The word think, in this case, is what makes success such a relative concept. They way we perceive our writing is not what makes our work successful, but rather the way our work is received and perceived by others.
The written word, by its very nature, is a mode that is meant to be shared, and when most of us write, we are pitching our work to an indiscriminate audience full of nameless faces and oversimplified standards. We are writing with the knowledge that a prolific stream of consciousness or a meticulously detailed masterpiece will be evaluated and judged by others --in this case by our peers, and our very charming professor. With that in mind, we can manipulate our styles and our approach to try to impress, entertain, or even aggravate them. It’s easy enough to say, “I write for myself and my own entertainment, and if I think my work is a success, it is a success,” but then the very idea of writing is undermined. Can we really call a story a story if it is never shared? I would argue that we can’t.
To me, successful writing is writing that simply persists. The written work that persists is the written work that never dies, the work that becomes the classic, the must read, the story we all know. That’s success, that’s what we can strive towards.
If, through the course of this class, I can write a story that persists, even if it only sticks with one of you, then I think that would be successful. Relatively speaking.
-Samantha Markey
The second paragraph reminds me quite a bit of a scene in the movie Finding Forrester, where Jamal confronts Forrester about having a desk full of writing that the world will never see. He demands to know what the point is in writing if it isn't to be shared.
ReplyDeleteI think all too often people can forget that, what the purpose of writing is; to convey who we are to others, and the stories we possess.
Btw, take care not to be a Solipsist :P
Er, and the commend was mine,
ReplyDelete-Alex
Really interesting post, Samantha. The "well, if it turns out to be a classic" argument for success is a common one, especially in academic circles (though I hesitate to agree that we have to wait, as some would suggest, 100 or 200 years before making the call on success.) I am also really interested in the idea of audience that you suggest is essential to stories and storytelling. We'll touch on that in class. Great work!
ReplyDelete- Jessica
Alex,
ReplyDeleteI've never had the chance to see that movie, but I’ll have to check it out.
Also, (and I hope this doesn’t seem abrasive) you may want to read up a little more on Solipsism, or reread what I've written. If you're going to assert something like that, be mindful that the Solipsist emphasizes only the self and discredits the very idea, impact, or relevance of minds (or even a universe) outside of their own. What I argued here is the exact opposite, that other minds and creations exist and should be shared, that my own mind and creation is meaningless or worthless (and may as well not exist) if it isn’t materialized and shared. I can’t be solipsistic if I acknowledge the relevance, impact, and standards of an entity like an audience. :P
I'd argue that the Solipsist is the sort of person who would claim their work is a success simply because they perceive it that way, a person who writes for “themselves” and values only their own opinion. They assert that their mind, interpretation, and their creation (according to their standards) is all that matters.
Professor J,
I definitely agree with you on that one: I don’t think you can set a specific time to gestate or affirm the classic. I also think there is a difference between successful writing and classics (not that classics aren’t successful), and that successful writing does not have to be “good” writing or writing that academics suggest is “good”; just look at the sparkly vampire nonsense.
-Samantha Markey