I Have No Clout, and I Must Seethe
- Aaron Arm
- 2 minutes ago
- 5 min read
... an elegy for the unknown writer
Okay, so not quite an elegy. Lament? Litany? See, this is why I'm not famous.
I am a mediocre, jealous thing. Well-rounded, yes, perhaps even stylistic, but without voice. I leave a modest trail of musings and imagined worlds when I write. Flashes of cleverness occasionally surface, as though light is being beamed from within, but they are fleeting.
Outwardly: dumbly, I shake my writing in the faces of others -- writing that only plays at facsimile, whose shape becomes all the more obscene for its vague resemblance to literature.
Inwardly: alone. Here. Living in the shadows. At least others are successful. I should be happy for the lot of them, and yet ... my ego will be all the madder for that. I have no clout. And I must seethe.
If you'll excuse the histrionics, I couldn't resist leaning fully into the titular reference above. Of course, this tongue-in-cheek homage is nowhere near the level of the original, which is quite appropriate considering the timbre of this post — which, be forewarned, is not nearly as instructional as other blogs I've attempted. If anything, it's downright introspective. But what is creative writing if not a meandering road toward self-understanding?
The topic is painfully simple, cliché even, but one that I imagine worms its way into the consciousness of any writer at some point or another: The pursuit of "success" (that nebulous, amorphous monster lurking behind every creative's better judgment) and the fear of failure.
Why Do I Write?
My earlier rhetorical question is a good enough answer, personally. Writing is a meandering road toward self-understanding. It is a creative outlet, it is a hobby, it is something to work toward, and it is, ideally, fun. But in all of this, it is ultimately a way for me to understand my own understanding. If art is a lens through which we view the world, then the pursuit of art requires that we grapple with our own lens. Writing is not the only path toward self-reflection, of course, nor is it the only form of self-expression. But for me, it is the most natural and satisfying one.
Now, if I were smart, I'd stop here. "Writing is fulfilling and I like it. So there."
But I am not smart, which is likely why I also have no clout. Thus, it follows:
I also write with the hope, and even the intention, of having a readership that expands beyond myself. Yes, I want an audience. I am not so self-defeating that I'd aspire to a specific number of readers, but the number is certainly more than one and preferably holds a direct relationship with time. What's more: I want people to enjoy what I write. These are not behemothic goals, perhaps, but they present a certain challenge when occupying the same space as that first reason for writing. After all, if I fail to achieve a successful readership — by whatever unknown, arbitrary, perhaps even impossible standard I ascribe to that — can I still achieve a complete sense of fulfillment by writing for myself?
If I were answering this on behalf of another writer, the answer would be a resounding "YES." But it's not that simple when we're being honest with ourselves, is it?
Admissions and Admonishments
As snappy as the title of this post is, I don't want to be dishonest. I do have some clout. I have published my work, which has been read and received not-entirely-poorly by a not insignificant number of people. (I am not being coy here; I quite genuinely mean mediocrity.) I've also made a relatively comfortable career out of writing and editing across a variety of fields. And throughout it all, I've still made time to write for myself — and enjoy it.
It's fair to say I've made steady progress in my writing journey. But again: The notion of "success" in this field is uncountable and ever-changing. Even as we run toward it, it escapes further into an indistinct horizon.
So, just as I'm able to acknowledge my progress, I am equally-if-not-more able to admonish myself for what I've not achieved. By any reasonable account, I am an unknown writer. I would say I'm also an unknown editor, although that phrase is redundant even for those who are undeniably successful.
Now, lest this post spiral into an aimless journal entry of self-pity, I'll get to the point: If the goalposts for success are undefinable at best and impossible at worst, how do we shrug off that nagging fear of failure? To reiterate my earlier question: How do we keep writing for ourselves, and find utter contentment to that end, regardless of where the writing ends up?
Why Do I Write? v2.0 redux.
After reflecting on my earlier reasons for writing, I see the two as not entirely disparate. I write 1) to understand myself, and 2) with the aspiration of being understood by others. When juxtaposed as such, and when contextualized within the framework of what it means to be human, these are two sides of the same coin: communication. People are social creatures, chiefly because of language. We don't only communicate to edify others, but we also communicate to understand things ourselves. We communicate to learn, to grow, to process, to reflect, to evolve, to be. And storytelling, at its core, is communication.
Yes, I write for myself. And if I only ever wrote for myself — if I knew my worlds would never be touched by the light of other stars — would I happily continue? Likely, on some level. But stories are communication, and communication never feels complete unless there is someone to receive it. So, is it really that self-aggrandizing to want, even anticipate, some level of feedback on our musings, so that we can better position our own lens for self-reflection? Communication is a feedback loop. Stories deserve feedback. Writers want to close that loop.
Perhaps this is all self-evident to the average writer or even non-writer, but it was not clear to me until I sat down to write all of this (appropriate, no?). Truly, I was prepared to seethe, and only seethe, over my perceived lack of clout.
I will still seethe, in fact. But it will be cathartic, because I know that it is part of the process. Just as sitting down to write is part of the process, as is the writing itself, the revising, and, god willing, the successful dissemination of the work to willing readers, so too is the seething over every absent reader who I know might enjoy the work but hasn't or won't come across it. It's a yearning to close that feedback loop which is, in essence, a yearning for human connection.
Put otherwise: If a tree falls in the forest without witness, does it make a sound? Of course it does. And trees will fall. But boy, oh boy, is it more satisfying for a tree to fall to a cheering crowd of carpenters, ready to make something of it. Chop away, friends.