So… I do what all writers should do, I read. I read anything, lots of fiction, some highbrow, some not so much. I also read books on what else… writing.
With an infant, I must choose my books very carefully as it takes me FOREVER to finish one. This one was worth the 3 weeks it took for me to polish it off, reading it a page at a time. And it was a fun read. Elizabeth Gilbert has an easy writing style, sarcastic and playful, two things I love in a writer.
There are lots of tidbits in Big Magic, kind of a pep talk for us authors (or any kind of creator really). Some of it I’ve heard before. But beyond it being a very usable guide to creativity, I liked chewing on the slight shifts in perspective, those meaty metaphors that just click and you put down the book and go “Yeah!”
My favorite part of Big Magic comes about two thirds into it and is called…
The Martyr Vs. The Trickster
The theory goes like this. We artists are convinced we need suffering to create good art. And this feels true. Every good artist is tortured, aren’t they? Hence the high alcoholism, drug addiction and suicide rates in rock stars and poets.
I did believe this. I believed that happiness and comfort are like sedatives to creation, maybe like a schizophrenic thinks drugs muffle their genius.
The martyr holds onto his angst because he feels he must. He uses his tortured soul to wrench from himself masterpieces. Misery keeps things fresh, potent. Pain is productive, even if it is, you know, painful. It’s a sacrifice that must be made. The martyr is willing to die for their art. Some do.
This concept has always been a real downer for me, mainly because I live a pretty charmed life. What deep well of pain do I have to draw my creativity from? And do I really want that pain? What about those of us who are not willing to take up an addiction, desecrate a relationship or survive a grievous tragedy that could create the necessary heartache for greatness? What about the rest of us who want to be happy? Is that so much to ask?
Enter the trickster. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. He just wants to play and see what he creates. He’s the Van Wilder of creation – pompous, smart, confident, and mischievous. And he usually gets his way. And if he doesn’t, he just changes strategy. No deep psychosis required.
So from here on out, I vow not to discredit my creative spirit because it’s happy. I will not mourn the loss of the angst of my twenties. And I’m no longer waiting for the right emotional climate to create my masterpiece. I’ll just start tinkering on it.