Bill's Notes

Bach inscribed each of his works with the motto, "Glory belongs only to God," and insisted (wrongly) that anyone who worked as hard as he did could have achieved results just as good. He was content to be a diligent craftsman in the service of God, and did not seek to be a genius; he simply was one. That is the starting point of the man of faith. One does not set out to be a genius, but rather to be of service; extraordinary gifts are responsibility to be borne with humility. The search for genius began when the service of God no longer interested the artists and scientists.

Faith Saves, Writing Kills
The danger of excessive fantasies
The writing life is a fantasy and it destroys many people. Harold Bloom calls it the agon, the competition. If not careful, it will shred you to pieces. It nearly did to me. I drank too much and talked too much when drunk and whined too much when sober, resulting in so many broken relationships I could hardly bear to look at myself in the morning. I spent a good deal of my 20s working in journalism, traveling around the world or studying in grad school, doing what I thought I needed to do to become a writer, but actually not building any kind of real life for myself, and worse, I was thrusting myself one time after another into situations where lasting friendships were unlikely ... now it is of course friendship and companionship that I prize more than anything else.

I had wanted to be a writer — I had a burning desire, that call — since I was nine. I assumed that any call that strong was a message that I was "meant" to be a writer. Twenty years later, I realized that I had misinterpreted that calling. I wasn't meant to become a writer: That burning, obsessive call was just a splintered off part of my psyche pushing me to solve a single riddle. That is, I didn't want to become a writer, I wanted to know the ending of a story. The answer to the riddle was painful to learn for me personally, but in terms of its larger significance it was banal and not worthy of publication.

My solving of the riddle occurred ten years ago this month. In June 1993, the dream of the artist died. Good thing, too. It may have killed me. The only reason I still work as a writer is I have not found someone willing to pay me to do anything else at comparable wages. Ironic, huh? I started out the writing path without regard for money, making real and lasting sacrifices for that writing life fantasy, and now I only stay because of the money.

A moral for the story
Give God credit for a sense of humor. His justice is elegant and ironic and graceful — after all, I have violated the First Commandment: "I am the Lord thy God who has brought thee out of Egypt, have no other gods before me." The writing life fantasy, or any other obsessive artistic fantasy, is ultimately idolatry. My less-talented colleague above has never indulged in idolatry, and thus his life is blessed. My more talented friend has indulged in idolatry, like me, and we both have paid a high price. May God have mercy on us all, and may God be merciful when He corrects us.
posted by Bill at 3:57 PM