I must say that the sixth day of 2024 has been a rough one. I slept in a little bit longer than I usually do, then, diverging from my usual practice of hitting the cushion before doing anything electronically, other than calling up my meditation timer, I read a text message. Needless to say, my meditation practice this morning did not go well.
Even though I was temporarily distracted by a fun foray to Trader Joe’s and to a coffee shop, most of my entire day has been absorbed by the implications of that text message and a few other unrelated emails. I’m not going to go into any detail about these correspondences, except to say that they challenged and called into question The Creative Impulse and forced one to answer the question, what the hell are you doing.
I know there are a lot of musicians who hang up their instruments. I know there are a lot of people who graduate from MFA programs who never go on to write anything. I know there are a lot of painters who never pick up a brush, or illustrators who never pick up their pencils. Dancers who stop dancing. Sculptors who stop sculpting. Actors who never get back on a stage. And then there are members of the above societies who continue to do what they do, over and over, again and again, with little or no evidence of “success.” There are musicians who play their own music who never get a deal, never get attention, or who never make any money. There are artists who continue to paint or draw or write who never get noticed, never get a show, never sell a work, never get published. There are actors who continue to perform but never move outside or above community theater productions, where they work incredibly hard for a couple of months, hours and hours and hours, for free. I’m wondering what separates the first group from the second–the ones who give up early from the ones who never give up, the ones who quit from the ones who persevere.
There may be a third group–the group that persists and perseveres into their middle age, who have for decades immersed themselves into the slog that is artistic practice–who suddenly, in a fit of futility or burnout, finally give in and hang it up.
I am 59 years old. I have self-published a novel. Except for a tiny number of pieces (of which I could count on two hands), none of my work, poetry or fiction or non-fiction, has been published by a reputable big press, small press, magazine or website (outside of this blog). No agent has offered me representation. In the music world, I have endeavored to make music professionally all my adult life. For 40 years I have made efforts to “make it” as a musician. Not deterred by the inscrutable music industry, I have independently released a career’s worth of original music–perhaps the equivalent of 12 different full length albums over the years. I have not once turned a profit on any of it.
I am still writing.
I am still making music.
What the hell am I doing?
Here’s an addendum: I continued to write and make music while holding down a job that I enjoyed and handled with a pretty strong level of expertise. I was lucky in that I had a job, an occupation, and was able to continue with my serious “hobbies,” my vocation. It didn’t hurt that my occupation was also vocational. I am fortunate beyond words that the teaching profession found in me an enthusiastic and committed participant. If I had relied on music or writing to make a living, I may have starved. It is also possible that I did not make it as a musician or a writer because I chose to teach, because I did not dedicate myself wholly to the life of an artist. There’s no way of knowing–so that’s kind of a futile intellectual exercise.
But here I am, retired from teaching, finding the creative impulse in me stronger than ever, wanting to do almost nothing else other than write and play–given of course that I continue to do the things one has to do–the family thing, the husbanding and fathering, the caretaking of a household, bills and taxes. Given all that, I must continue to write and play. Why? Has there ever been a 59 year old breakthrough pop star? All the old pop stars I know of had the benefit of being famous in their 20s or 30s. Sure, there are older writers being published all the time, even new ones–but in that industry too there is, or seems to be, a kind of age gulf and a preference in the industry for young hot writers–even better if they’re young AND hot.
And yet, neither young nor hot, I persist. . .
. . . because without a creative outlet, I would wither up; because writing poems and stories and songs helps me to know myself; because it brings me joy; because I am writing and singing and drumming myself out of a hole, away from despair; because “real life is terrible,” and art makes it bearable; because I want to leave something behind, even if no one ever sees or hears it; because if only one person’s life is enriched, even for a few moments, by a thing I have made, then the thing was absolutely worth doing; and finally, because doing the thing is inherently good, in and of itself; because I am compelled to do it, not out of the desire for fame and fortune, but because I could not do otherwise.
I had to remind myself of these things today as the result of that text message that was the first thing I encountered this morning. It took me all day, a lot of grieving, a lot of writing, and some help from my beloved family. I think it’s going to be okay. At least, I know what I need to do. And maybe most importantly, I have reminded myself about WHY I need to do it.
michael jarmer 