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chelidonNames are so powerful. We all have the many names by which others know us (some of us more than others ;>), and the legion names by which we know ourselves. Not only the "proper names," but the formal and informal roles we take on, or that others project upon us. Good daughter, neglectful son, dutiful parent, hard worker, lazy slacker, honorable man, damned troublemaker, brazen girl, queer lad, on and on the names go. Secret names, pet names, whispered lover's names, curses and honors and nomes de plume, titles, roles, slanders, slurs, terms of endearment and challenge... Claiming, changing, dropping names, these are all such powerful acts we can take with intent.
Why should it matter? They're all just labels, after all, aren't they? They don't have to do with who we *really* are...
But they do. We are constantly, at every single blessed moment, creating, re-inventing ourselves, and re-creating, re-inventing the universe around us. And the cliche is true-- we are all deeply, inextricably interconnected and entwined, and we constantly re-invent each other as well. Each moment is a moment of powerful co-creation, a relentless, brilliant spark of shared engendering of the world(s) around us.
That's one of the reasons we are always at least somewhat of a reflection of the company we keep, and the environments in which we exist, why we behave differently in different contexts with different people. It's one of the reasons that people in nursing homes, separated from all those who knew them, those who helped create their worlds and identities, often start to fade into insubstantiality. It's one of the reasons abusers tell their victims the lies they do and attempt to isolate them from others, to keep them weak, to re-invent them as powerless victims, to try to make the lie true. It's one of the reasons the constant sea of corporate advertising in which we are immersed is so insidious. It's one of the reasons allies are so very important. We constantly tell tales of each other, in words and actions, we are surrounded day in and day out by constant streams of narrative refrain, tales of You, and Me, and Us.
Of course we are not just passive clay to be molded by our surroundings, not just inarticulate mirrors. Far from it. Our inner selves shine, and our inner truths resist attempts to make them lies. But all glamour aside, neither do we seem to have the power to completely re-invent ourselves (or be re-invented by others) at a moment's notice-- we are not quite so completely malleable as that. Some of our patterns seem to be doggedly, stubbornly fixed, but others are much more liquid, immediately, or over time. Nor is the consensus reality in which we swim infinitely, entirely subjective (from a practical, not a philosophical, point of view). There are limits, there are persistent truths and realities -- though the world is in fact quite a bit more mutable than most people allow themselves to believe.
So all of this philosophical musing comes to mind for me because of a simple act of self-identification that I am taking, one I should probably have taken long ago. It's an act which some folks may find funny, but it's a serious and challenging step for me.
Throughout my life I've called myself many things, done a lot of different kinds of work, lived in a lot of different places. One thing I've always wanted to be, from an early age was a writer. But I've never actually called myself that, not really. If someone asked me what I did, up until as recently as a week ago, I either didn't mention writing, or I would say, "I am a {x,y,z}, and I write." Not "I am a writer," but "...and I write." It's an extra, a whim, a lark, a hobby or avocation or sideline.
Well, that's a lie. For the majority of the last 10 years, I've made the greater part of my living by writing. Now I write or edit in some manner or another almost every single day. I have stuff that goes out to hundreds of thousands of readers, I've had stuff that's gone out to millions of readers.
While driving last weekend, I was cogitating about this with one of my housemates, and she laughed in my face, marveling that I was even asking the question. "I knew you were a writer the first time we corresponded by email, before we even actually met," she said. At least once a day since then she stops, looks me dead in the face and says, "you are a writer." Dammit.
What more am I waiting for? And what am I so afraid of that I haven't taken this obvious step years and years ago? The obvious answer is that if what I am is a writer, than I have to write, and I have to do more of *my* writing-- not what I get paid for, but what I want to write, what I feel I need to write. All of the other writing, that which pays the bills, can, in part, be seen as a clever excuse to avoid my work, because I'm too busy, I'm on deadline, I have commitments and obligations and projects and assignments. And there's not a lot of ego attached to it, either -- it's safe...it's just my job, y'know?
And to be clear, there are times when that "other" work is still Right Livelihood -- I had a short piece go out yesterday lambasting a mega-corporation for screwing over 5000 of its workers, and almost immediately got a reply from someone telling me how much those words had meant to them, just that someone spoke publicly that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, told them they deserved better and that the inhumane and grotesque corporate malfeasance hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Having the opportunity to speak those words and have them heard is a privilege, and I'm grateful for it.
But it's still not what burns inside me, it's still not the raw creative juices flowing through in torrents and rivers that thrills and terrifies me. And that's the challenge. I think now of the 10 of wands, one of whose meanings can be the burning, crushing burden of living up to one's own creative nature.
Well, bring it on. After at least three decades of somehow avoiding this self-identification, I'm finally coming out as a writer.
I am a writer.
So there.
Why should it matter? They're all just labels, after all, aren't they? They don't have to do with who we *really* are...
But they do. We are constantly, at every single blessed moment, creating, re-inventing ourselves, and re-creating, re-inventing the universe around us. And the cliche is true-- we are all deeply, inextricably interconnected and entwined, and we constantly re-invent each other as well. Each moment is a moment of powerful co-creation, a relentless, brilliant spark of shared engendering of the world(s) around us.
That's one of the reasons we are always at least somewhat of a reflection of the company we keep, and the environments in which we exist, why we behave differently in different contexts with different people. It's one of the reasons that people in nursing homes, separated from all those who knew them, those who helped create their worlds and identities, often start to fade into insubstantiality. It's one of the reasons abusers tell their victims the lies they do and attempt to isolate them from others, to keep them weak, to re-invent them as powerless victims, to try to make the lie true. It's one of the reasons the constant sea of corporate advertising in which we are immersed is so insidious. It's one of the reasons allies are so very important. We constantly tell tales of each other, in words and actions, we are surrounded day in and day out by constant streams of narrative refrain, tales of You, and Me, and Us.
Of course we are not just passive clay to be molded by our surroundings, not just inarticulate mirrors. Far from it. Our inner selves shine, and our inner truths resist attempts to make them lies. But all glamour aside, neither do we seem to have the power to completely re-invent ourselves (or be re-invented by others) at a moment's notice-- we are not quite so completely malleable as that. Some of our patterns seem to be doggedly, stubbornly fixed, but others are much more liquid, immediately, or over time. Nor is the consensus reality in which we swim infinitely, entirely subjective (from a practical, not a philosophical, point of view). There are limits, there are persistent truths and realities -- though the world is in fact quite a bit more mutable than most people allow themselves to believe.
So all of this philosophical musing comes to mind for me because of a simple act of self-identification that I am taking, one I should probably have taken long ago. It's an act which some folks may find funny, but it's a serious and challenging step for me.
Throughout my life I've called myself many things, done a lot of different kinds of work, lived in a lot of different places. One thing I've always wanted to be, from an early age was a writer. But I've never actually called myself that, not really. If someone asked me what I did, up until as recently as a week ago, I either didn't mention writing, or I would say, "I am a {x,y,z}, and I write." Not "I am a writer," but "...and I write." It's an extra, a whim, a lark, a hobby or avocation or sideline.
Well, that's a lie. For the majority of the last 10 years, I've made the greater part of my living by writing. Now I write or edit in some manner or another almost every single day. I have stuff that goes out to hundreds of thousands of readers, I've had stuff that's gone out to millions of readers.
While driving last weekend, I was cogitating about this with one of my housemates, and she laughed in my face, marveling that I was even asking the question. "I knew you were a writer the first time we corresponded by email, before we even actually met," she said. At least once a day since then she stops, looks me dead in the face and says, "you are a writer." Dammit.
What more am I waiting for? And what am I so afraid of that I haven't taken this obvious step years and years ago? The obvious answer is that if what I am is a writer, than I have to write, and I have to do more of *my* writing-- not what I get paid for, but what I want to write, what I feel I need to write. All of the other writing, that which pays the bills, can, in part, be seen as a clever excuse to avoid my work, because I'm too busy, I'm on deadline, I have commitments and obligations and projects and assignments. And there's not a lot of ego attached to it, either -- it's safe...it's just my job, y'know?
And to be clear, there are times when that "other" work is still Right Livelihood -- I had a short piece go out yesterday lambasting a mega-corporation for screwing over 5000 of its workers, and almost immediately got a reply from someone telling me how much those words had meant to them, just that someone spoke publicly that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, told them they deserved better and that the inhumane and grotesque corporate malfeasance hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Having the opportunity to speak those words and have them heard is a privilege, and I'm grateful for it.
But it's still not what burns inside me, it's still not the raw creative juices flowing through in torrents and rivers that thrills and terrifies me. And that's the challenge. I think now of the 10 of wands, one of whose meanings can be the burning, crushing burden of living up to one's own creative nature.
Well, bring it on. After at least three decades of somehow avoiding this self-identification, I'm finally coming out as a writer.
I am a writer.
So there.
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-21 09:26 pm (UTC)(grin)
Congratulations on your self-naming!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 05:53 am (UTC)Reminds me of a line from a song sent to my by my friend
Over the doorway painted bold,
A question begs your pardon:
Is this a place of many souls
Or just one very large one?
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 06:38 pm (UTC)thankyouthankyou! I am very eagerly anticipating listening to it!
no subject
Date: 2005-01-21 09:35 pm (UTC)Congratulations.
You are not only a writer, but a damned fine writer.
Love,
Crow Writer
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 05:55 am (UTC)"Thank you. I know."
*shudder* ;>
And now, having said that, I can also say,
"Ditto."
Yours in Art,
--Chelidon fellow-Writer
no subject
Date: 2005-01-21 10:40 pm (UTC)I still remember the day I started calling myself an artist, it was about 7 years ago. I wrote it in a paper journal I was keeping at the time, my entry for the day simply said "I AM AN ARTIST." End of story. And I have been ever since. Of course, I've also been a lot of other things along with it, but mostly I'm an artist.
And yes, everyone who knows you even vaguely will probably say "Duh, I always knew you were a writer." I was just talking about you with Dave last night (or was it this morning? can't remember now) and saying what a great writer I thought you were. He agreed. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 06:06 am (UTC)I remember not so many years ago getting subtle (and not so subtle) digs from a couple of friends who are or were full-time artists for daring to call myself an "artist." Not okay in their book.
I sensed that part of the problem was that I, at the time, made a (relatively speaking) lot of money, had a sustainable lifestyle, owned a house, did not have any formal art degree, and seemed to be rather happy with my life as it was. All of these things were considered almost shameful, and an indication of lack of dedication to the proper life of an artist.
To which I did, and so, say....f*ck that.
There is nothing in my copy of the Book of Art which states that to be an artist, one must be
1. poor as a church mouse
2., miserable to death
3. alone
4. living on the edge of madness, poverty and desperation
Though our society does not much value art, which does by consequence encourage the previous states of living,nowhere does it say they are requirements, as badges of honor, or membership into the club.
Yes, you can almost certainly make more money as a CPA, or, for that matter, almost anything else. But nowhere does it say you absolutely can't be happy, be an artist, and still have happy relationships, and pay the bills. So I choose to believe, anyhow. So mote it be.
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 03:52 pm (UTC)And your comment about the masks reminds me of the second "Art of Magick" weekend workshop several of us put on in D.C. a few years back-- we worked heavily with masks (one of the co-teachers made the most incredible mixed-media sculptures/masks). And we worked with the demon/muse pairing, the constellation of inspiration, creativity, depression, self-doubt, and all of the other myths we tell ourselves about what it means to be an artist. There was one evening ritual where my role was invoking the demonic aspect of creativity, and others of the co-facilitators invoked other aspects, and the participants were in the middle, being pulled in one direction or another, finding their own place of balance, noting where they were now, and where they felt they needed to be, etc.
Anyway, while doing that invocation for the night, I got a lot of information about the power and perils of the demonic creative impulse -- so powerful, but asking only for your soul, your life, your happiness, your health...everything must be sacrificed on the altar of art and burned without regard in the fires of creativity. So powerful, so alluring, so necessary...and so out of balance. That demonic aspect of creativity is playful, cruel, implacable, inspiring, terrifying, and utterly uncaring for the human needs of artists. To him/her/it we are but sacred vessels whose role is to bring forth magnificence and beauty, and to be encouraged, prodded, driven, to do our very utmost to do that sacred work. "Happiness" or "success" in a temporal, human fashion is completely unimportant.
And that's a big part of the myth of the artist's life I know I grew up with, and I think we all internalize to some extent. The key for me is the balancing. The art is sacred, and important, and...it is not all there is. There's life, too, being present, glorying in our embodiment, treating one's body, one's life as a part of the sacred drama, not just a shell to be used up, sacrificed and discarded in service to the Art. We are the Art, too, and how we live our lives is as much a part of the Tale as the artifacts we leave behind..
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 04:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 06:54 pm (UTC)I figure doing art is hard enough, it doesn't have to be any harder than it needs to be. And the less time I spend being miserable or sick or wondering where my next meal is coming from (been there, don't ever want to go back), the more productive time I can spend on my art.
Sustainability, a constant struggle, I find. Is it better to put out 200% for five years, and then die or just burn out, or do 80% for forty years? Logically, the latter results in a lot more art, as well as being a happier person. But of course it's not all about logic, it's about being an embodied human artist ;>
no subject
Date: 2005-01-22 02:03 pm (UTC)And, good for you.
What he said . . .
Date: 2005-01-25 08:10 pm (UTC)And yes, I am still staring at the blank piece of paper with simmering rage. But . . . I too am a writer.
love,
Katrina
Re: What he said . . .
Date: 2005-01-25 09:12 pm (UTC)Yep, "One blank piece of paper...." ;>
How many years ago was that workshop? Eight? Ten? The battle does not abate, it seems...