Today I am thinking of criticism. About my work and about the work of others. Criticism makes me uncomfortable. I think art should be for everyone and that everyone deserves a chance to try, to fail, and to suck. I have done all of those things. The first draft of my second novel is an exercise in sucking. It is very much a first draft, mostly dialogue, with a lot of loose ends hanging. I've been writing the first scene in which we learn that Philip not the most popular guy in town for what seems like weeks and I am so tired of it and I know it is kind of crappy at this stage, but I must keep going.
People often ask me what I think of their improv shows and their writing and answering truthfully is always hard for me. I am just one person with pretty narrow tastes, so how the hell do I know? I like what I like, but what I don't like isn't necessarily bad.
There's a lot of worthless criticism out there, too. Criticism is an art itself. Who the hell are these effete New York people who get to say what books, films, and works of art are deserving of the world's praise?
The worst, though, is when someone is patently untalented and you are compelled to lie about their skill level so as to not hurt their feelings. I would make a lousy hockey player, so I know not to insist on joining anyone's hockey team, but what if I was that kind of person? How do you deal with a hockey player who can't skate? I don't know. Female children are raised to believe that hurting another person's feelings is so wrong, but I want to have a thick, tough skin. It's the only way I'll ever get my novels published. And it's the only way to be a successful, constantly-learning artist, really.
Posted by Zerd at November 19, 2007 08:35 PM