What’s my story?
What are you going to do, teach?
This was the question. It’s what everyone asked, what everyone thought, how everyone assumed things worked: you get a degree in the Humanities and are equipped to do…what, exactly, in the real world?
Well, I didn’t teach.
And my journey, at once completely unique yet consistent with what countless other creatives have experienced, proves that there’s no safe or predictable path. At a certain point, the post-graduate with artistic aspirations needs to get extremely serious about two things: refining their craft and paying the bills. Thus, the beginning of what, for many of us, is a decades-long dance—putting in the work (to improve, to produce, to publish) while finding some form of employment, be it part or full time, during the day or at night, side hustles or detours. Some observations and nuggets of dearly-earned wisdom gleaned along that path here.
In addition to my own writing, I see part of my life’s work helping champion voices that might otherwise remain unheard, while connecting communities in an increasingly bifurcated climate that creates barriers and isolation. A win for me is helping facilitate communication and connection amongst passionate people who might otherwise never engage with or discuss things they care about with people outside their bubble. What I’m saying is, we know these dislocations are a pressing sociopolitical issue, but they also pertain very much to the art world. This work informs my day-to-day endeavors and the work of my non-profit, 1455.
Why do we tell stories?
To inform, to inspire, to connect.
The miracle of art is the way it enables us to express things at once inextricable from ourselves and more encompassing than the sum of an individual existence. More, it facilitates an exchange, across language, time, and space. In short, it provides the opportunity for connection.
The methods and meanings of connection are in constant flux, just as art evolves, over time. Back in a different, arguably simpler era, connection occurred in the present tense, in person. Or did it? Another miracle of art is the way it defies death (literal, figurative): so long as human eyes, ears, and hearts are available to receive it, art can align us through centuries. Who hasn’t, on occasion, felt closer to an author or work of art than their closest relatives?
Art has the possibility of teaching us so many things, and in ways that cut across economic, geographic, and even historical barriers. An exceptional poem, song, story, painting, or photograph can present experiences from a life we don’t know or could only imagine, or it can remind us that most human beings are desperate for the same things: love, peace, understanding, justice, compassion, community, beauty.
Art reveals recurring themes (good, bad, ugly) in human history, and homes in on what makes kings, soldiers, parents, orphans, the working poor, and the wealthiest one percent identical: we all, after a fashion, are seeking meaning in our brief time on this planet. Stories heal and inspire when they force us to ask questions, understand there are often many answers to any question, and that by seeing ourselves in others (and vice versa), we’re less likely to be intolerant, lazy, or unkind. There is a quiet power in the ways art unites us.
Creative storytelling is never a static act. Whether intended to unify or disrupt, the reaction, when it’s received, is an antidote to solitude (sometimes even despair)—and instigates progression, on personal or societal levels. The impact of art can be empowering, and a human being has changed, invariably for the better, having been part of the connection.
(Some extended meditations on The Power of Story, Why We Create to Connect, Diversity & Beauty in Storytelling, and Reflections on the State of the Art, circa 2023.)
Why do stories matter?
Reading writers who have helped change the world changes you. You come to appreciate what William Carlos Williams meant when he wrote “It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.” Certain seminal works alter your perception of the big picture: cause and effect, agency vs. incapacity, and history vs. ideology.
Writing from different cultures and different times inevitably denotes truths (even if couched in fictional narratives) that are outside of time and agenda. It is, then, easier to make connections between Irish immigrants who worked the coal mines in Pennsylvania, Lithuanian immigrants who worked in the meatpacking plants in Chicago, and Mexican immigrants—especially the illegal ones—who labor in sweltering kitchens and frigid fields all across our country. It’s impossible not to put human faces and real feelings alongside this suffering and start connecting the dots that define how exploitation works. We discern the uneasy lines connecting our shared histories and possible futures. And then, at last, there’s a chance for recognition, empathy, culpability.
Why bring politics into it, one might ask (and a certain political party reliably does)? Short answer, duh. Longer answer, courtesy of the ever-reliable (and prescient) George Orwell: “The opinion that art should have nothing
to do with politics is itself a political attitude.” As someone who writes fiction and poetry but also reviews and champions art, I’m cognizant of my status as a straight white male, while also feeling the desire to showcase traditionally under-represented voices is imperative, and consistent with the mission of any critic with integrity: broaden dialogue and celebrate marginalized voices. If we’re made to see others it’s possible we’ll see ourselves. Bearing witness requires listening as much as speaking out. This is one meaningful way writers can hold others— and themselves—to account. Without engagement none of this is possible and, in 2021, it seems not only irresponsible, but immoral to look away.
Our duty, as individual creatives and fans, is to tell our stories, listen to other’s stories, and do whatever we can to generate awareness and enthusiasm. One thing I’m certain of, after a lifetime of learning, failing, and falling, is the belief—no matter what the cynical or soulless insist—that art matters. What art provides is the reason we toil, struggle, and refuse to surrender. Art is what redeems the occasional silence and solitude. As ever, for those keeping the faith and staying true to their vision: the deeper drive is to connect, to put something unique into the world and see how it lands. Can a connection be established? Can a dialogue be initiated? Can a debate begin? Can our world be saved, one exchange at a time?
