Beyond Measures

Thoughts on pleasure, success, and writing

Photo by Jess Bailey on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

Every time I happen to read a so-called success story, the recurring theme is that passion was the driver. Not money or fame or power or whatever else, but a genuine sense of pleasure, a profound feeling of contentment, the almost uncontrollable desire to do something for the sake of doing it, because it feels good. And then that something suddenly was in great demand and became a money-machine. This switch occurred because of the involvement of someone else, typically. As, had it depended exclusively on the maker of that something, they would have continued happily down their path, possibly without even realizing they had something others wanted. 

Maybe that’s actually how it went, or maybe there’s some sugar coating in the narrative. Who knows. It's nonetheless comforting and inspiring to hear that something universally recognized as beautiful and valuable sprinkled out of pure passion, and not out of some commercial strategy or machination. What I’m generally not at ease with is the “success” part of success stories. Because success, in this world, largely means money. And money, beyond what you need to live a comfortable life, largely means power. Which in turn means that you can obtain whatever you want. Like, when you decide to buy a five-hundred million boat that’s so big to require disassembling a bridge to get it out of the shipyard, you obtain that they disassemble the bridge for you. Things of that sort. I’m oversimplifying, but that’s the world we live in. 

Anyway, I loathe power but I’m not against money. I’m against using money to measure success. What else would you measure it by?, you may ask. The honest answer is I don’t know. Any proposal would sound utopian unless we decide to eliminate money from the picture, probably an even more utopian endeavor. We’d have to re-design our society and values, but I’m afraid that, soon enough, we’d fall into the same trap. Something else would replace money as a never-sufficient, success-signaling possession, and its relentless accumulation would become the primary goal of every human. And we would, again, spontaneously and naturally dedicate every activity and behavior and thought to that goal. 

So, I guess we’re fucked (no asterisk). Money’s in the picture and here to stay as the primary measure of success. But amidst this being-fucked-ness, I might choose to believe that things born out of sheer passion will naturally evolve commercially. In other words, I might choose to believe that, to make money, I must not think about making money. That starting something with money in mind is actually counterproductive. That is, it leads in the opposite direction. And I have plenty of personal evidence of this being the case: every time I started a project with the dollar sign flashing in my eyes, not only did no dollars ever materialize but I regularly lost a fair amount.  

I started writing because I wanted to prove to myself that I could transfer on the page what I had in my head. I did prove that to myself, and loved the process. I started publishing my writing because I wanted to seek validation that what I had transferred on the page was readable and enjoyable by others, even if I didn’t have anything particularly valuable or insightful to say. I continue to write and publish my writing because I continue to love unloading my head and people continue to read me. And, absent anything particularly valuable or insightful in my essays, they must like my voice, or else they’d stop. 

This is exactly why I myself decide to read someone: for their voice. So, by this token, equals attract, not opposites. To me, content and plot are secondary. The how is more important than the what. In this writing journey, I’ve reflected a great deal on what makes a voice attractive, on why some writers keep me engaged while others make me yawn. I believe it’s their tone and rhythm and color, the flow and simplicity of their prose, that natural ability to convey so much in little space. It’s hard to articulate, yet crystal clear when I see it. 

There’s a tendency to deconstruct what has achieved success and repackage it into a formula to apply, a recipe to replicate. I see this in all spheres of life, including writing. Good writing can be taught and learned, they say. It can be replicated. And judging by the number of writing courses out there, this seems to be a universally accepted notion. But can it really? Also, what is it? What is good writing? Are there generally accepted good writing principles? Can it be said that a piece of writing is objectively good? 

Writing is subjective and personal. Not necessarily because it may contain personal stories, but because it stems from a process of introspection and retrieval. Writing is bringing out what’s inside. And reading is subjective and personal too. When I read a piece, it has to do something to me. And that something varies from human to human. Reading is bringing in what’s outside, what’s on the page. Both experiences are highly subjective and profoundly personal. Whether a piece of writing is objectively good is, to me, not only beyond the point, but impossible to say. 

Yet, there seems to be a generalized aspiration to produce good writing, to drive one’s craft closer to the universal canons of goodness, whatever they may be. In so doing, the narrative goes, one’s writing may be appreciated by a larger audience and find its way to commercial success sooner. No matter how flat and anonymous it may become. If that’s what we want, then be it. 

Writing is art. Does a definition of good painting, or good sculpture, or good music exist? It does, in the eyes and ears and heart of those who observe or listen. That’s eight billion different definitions, potentially. Joni Mitchell said something astoundingly interesting on this theme: “I heard someone from the music business saying they are no longer looking for talent, they want people with a certain look and a willingness to cooperate. I thought, that’s interesting, because I believe a total unwillingness to cooperate is what is necessary to be an artist -- not for perverse reasons, but to protect your vision.”

A total unwillingness to cooperate is what is necessary to be an artist. This gave me food for thought for the foreseeable future. I hope it does to you too.    

 

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