... writers and writing. In Age appropriate The Inner Minx comments on a discussion at Skint Writer about writer envy.
This got me to thinking about the difference between envy and jealousy (the latter also pops up in the discussion). Also, I had just finished reading the opening chapter of Richard Davenport-Hines's Proust at the Majestic, to which the topic is relevant.
Jealousy, as its relation to zealous suggests, has primarily to do with concern that one's own achievements be properly appreciated - hence, one can be jealous of one's reputation. In Davenport-Hines's book, so far, Joyce seems jealous of Proust's success, because it somehow takes the luster off his own (and was greater financially). Jealousy is distinctly related to pride and can easily seem petty.
Envy is a lot uglier, since it involves not only resenting another's success or talent or both, but also wanting to possess them.
Both stem, I think, from insufficiently strong egos. I have never wanted to be anybody other than who I am and have never wanted to do anything other than what I am inclined to do, and I am inclined to do only what I am fairly sure I am capable of doing. I like it when people like what I do, but I am not bothered when they don't, because whatever I do, I do as conscientiously as I can under the ciurcumstances. I have never for a moment thought I was capable of being a writer on the scale, say, of a Tolstoy, and so have never wanted to be such. I think I have a pretty accurate gauge of my modest abilities and am grateful for them. My fondest wish is that a poem or two that I have written will survive me. But, as I told Debbie once, the writer I most admire is Anonymous: He wrote a lot of good stuff and has been spared biography.
Doing only what you're fairly sure you're capable of doing may lead to greater contentment, but not to truly innovative work. I think most artists are in some way driven to do what they may, in fact, not quite be capable of doing.
ReplyDeleteWell, that may be. Mark me down as a complacent slug. But that has nothing to do with either envy or jealousy.
ReplyDeleteMoreover, I don't happen to believe in progress when it comes to art and think that innovation is overrated. I certainly don't see much point in being driven to do what you're not quite capable of doing - since, if you're not capable, whether quite or a whole lot, you won't manage to do it.
I didn't ask for innovation from the guy who did my patio: I wanted skill, which he had in spades. I approach writing as a craft and you have be honest with yourself that your skill lies in laying sidewalks, say, and not building skyscrapers.
Finally, I wouldn't underestimate contentment.
No, no, Frank you get me wrong. None of this is meant personally, and I always regret when I've been unskilled enough to suggest otherwise. And I certainly agree wholeheartedly that skill is crucial. However - and here I'll take an analogy from music, since I'm speaking from long personal experience - you can acquire all the skill in the world, through hours and hours of good (& there is a big difference between good and poor, also unconcentrated) practice and teaching, and still nothing, butnothing will turn you into a Yehudi Menuhin or Yo-yo Ma. Craft is a prerequisite, but not the only component.
ReplyDeleteNor would I equate innovation with progress. All art is in some way synchronic.
As to envy/jealousy: perhaps you're right that it's not necessary for truly wonderful work in art, perhaps I should be thinking more about ambition and what fuels it.
May I quote a favourite author, Rupert Thomson, to illustrate a bit of what I'm getting at?
The only time I get distressed — though panic-stricken would be a better way of putting it — is in the middle of a book. All of a sudden, I feel that I’ve taken on too much, that what I’m attempting is either over-ambitious or ludicrous. This phase usually lasts for three or four days. It used to worry me, but now I’ve come to recognise it as a crucial phase, or even as a sign. These days I would worry if didn’t feel it. It would mean I’d undertaken something that was too obvious or too easy. I suppose I want every book to be a challenge. To take me somewhere I’ve never been. (Thanks to Maud Newton in her interview with Thomson: http://maudnewton.com/blog/?p=5554)
Lee, I am very far from being an artist, and I am an extremely driven person I am told. I work with a load of ex-scientists who are all very driven. My partner is one of the most driven people I have met, he's a scientist. I think that being driven is not to do with being artistic, it is in the genes or handed down from the parents or most likely a combination of both.
ReplyDeleteFrank, you are clearly a very well adjusted person, and I don't say that just because of these comments. You've found something I haven't (yet?)
Maxine, of course you're right. Did I give the impression that being driven was only the province of the artist? If so, I certainly didn't meant that! Cows give milk, but not only cows give milk - or some such...
ReplyDeleteAnd I agree with you that Frank is obviously well-adjusted (hi, Frank!). Now that is something I can really envy.
Hi Lee and Maxine,
ReplyDeleteI'm glad everyone thinks I'm well-adjusted. They should talk to my wife!
Lee is of course right that you can acquire all the skill you want and still lack that extra something that will make you, well, the envy of everybody else. As for being driven, I wonder how much of that comes from nurture rather than nature.
I plan to write something about this sometime in the future because I have been surprisingly successful (in the sense that I am doing what I always set out to do) but I don't think I would be perceived as inordinately ambitious. In my case, I started off with what has turned out to be a fairly accurate appraisal of what I could do and set about doing it with steady perseverance. I kept my eye open for opportunities and took advantage whenever one came my way. But my overriding preoccupation throughout my life has been to make sure that whatever I do be done primarily for its own sake - for the sheer fun of doing it. I also have a natural tendency to never look back. Once something's over, it's over.
By the way, Lee, I didn't take your remarks personally at all. I like to think of myself as complacent - and shallow: Maybe that's why I seem so well-adjusted!