The chief reward of any artistic effort (and perhaps of every other effort as well) is the work itself. Success lies in the accomplishment, not in its fruits. If I write well, I’m a success. Wealth and fame might be fun (or they might not) but they’re largely beside the point.
—Lawrence Block, in Telling Lies for Fun & Profit
I am a big fan of Lawrence Block, of both his fiction and his books on writing.
When I first read the above quote, I was very enthusiastic about it. Because it told me that what I write has value in and of itself — if done well — regardless of the fruit that may or may not come of it.
Block’s statement, “If I write well, I’m a success,” resonated with me. Why? Because I wanted to believe it.
However, that statement was made by a man who is in fact a monetarily successful (millionaire), peer acclaimed, and much admired writer. According to his own statement, Mr. Block has always made his living by his typewriter or keyboard.
When I pondered that fact, the steam went out of my enthusiasm for his sentiments.
Years ago, when I was writing poetry and having lots of it published, I had a discussion with the late Jane Reichhold, who was a big name in English language Japanese-style poetry. The discussion had to do with this very subject of success.
Rainer Maria Rilke, in his first letter to the young poet, made the same argument that Mr. Block made. That success lies in writing well. I mentioned this to Jane, and then added, “But Rilke was a published and successful poet.” And her reply was: “There you have it.”
It is easy for the successful (in the eyes of the world and the bank) to tell the rest of us that success lies in doing something well. That “The chief reward of any artistic effort… is the work itself.” Written, I’m sure, while Mr. Block was cashing his royalty checks at the bank.
Now, I don’t wish to take anything away from Mr. Block, because he’s an author I very much like and admire, and who has given me many hours of pleasure and much valuable advice. But that is exactly my point: he has legions of followers and admirers. When the tree falls in his woods, there are many, very many, who hear it.
When the tree falls in my woods, who hears it? Considerably fewer than in Mr. Block’s woods — or Rilke’s, for that matter.
I’m not saying it’s all about the money, or the awards — because I don’t think it is. Those are merely the results of something else. Namely, recognition. Admiration.
When Aeschylus staged his plays, was he actually after the prize? Or was the prize merely the totem signifying the judges’ and audience’s recognition of the greatness of his writing? I’d hazard a guess it was the latter.
In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche posits that the only thing that can save us, once we’ve peered into the abyss, is Art. Art being a symbol of that creative force that distinguishes gods from men. Gods create, and then look upon their creation and pronounce it good, or not (think the Flood).
As a writer, when I complete a work of fiction, I say the same thing: it is good (or not).
And while salvation, according to Nietzsche, lies in Art, I can’t help but wonder if he forgot that all gods want adulation — they demand worshippers.
If the god outside of me is dead, because I’ve become God — then don’t I, too, need worshippers as do all the gods? And if I don’t have them, don’t I become dead as well?
The Star Trek episode “Who Mourns for Adonais?” explored this theme, and the conclusion was that gods do indeed need worshippers in order to be gods.
Therefore, as a creative, is my work its own reward? Or does it need admirers? Do I need admirers? Does a tree falling in the woods make any sound if there’s no one there to hear it? What is the sound of one hand clapping?
I have no answer at this point. I want to believe Mr. Block’s statement and that of Rainer Maria Rilke before him. However, I can’t help but think that the writers of “Who Mourns for Adonais?” got it right.
Comments are always welcome. And until next time, happy reading!
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