The Gray Willow

Sometimes I can't help but ask, "Why can't we let art be?"

Of course, when I say art, I mean writing. (Mostly, anyway.) We as writers and readers are trained to analyze each other's stories; tear them apart, suggest ways to improve our work. But might it sometimes be better to allow the messages of the artist to simmer, ponder on what the artist is giving us in leiu of "helping" them improve?

Yet I'm ambivalent in this wish--I can be as critical as the rest; I enjoy ranting my opinions on Goodreads. But they are MY judgements. MY opinions. Who made me so wise?

I just finished reading FIRELIGHT by Sophie Jordan. I loved that book. Found it so compelling, romantic, and tense. The worldbuilding was beautiful, the protagonist relatable. I loved to escape to Jordan's rich Draki world. But it wasn't more than a second after I submitted my review that I saw one, two, then three other reviewers who gave the same book one star, while I gave it five.

So it's natural. Different books speak to different people. Some veer toward the humorous, others to the dramatic, or others an odd combination of both. Or maybe two people love paranormal books, but one hates a book in that genre, while the other calls it his/her favorite.

Yes, this is old news. I said it before: art resonates differently for everyone. After all, none of us have had the same experiences. And it's a blessing we have such a wide variety of books.

So why am I ranting? My quandry is this:

When I'm molding my story, polishing my craft, who do I listen to, who do I ignore? What if they don't understand my genre? What if they really do--but they don't have the distance for good advice? For one person, they'll want less literary prose, another will relish in every ounce of imagery. One will highlight public stakes, but another will insist they don't apply. It becomes a battle to decide who to trust. And then when we actually listen to others, take the plunge, do we ever look back, wonder, "Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have done that?"

Then, down the road, say we've published a book. Some rave about our brilliance while others would impale our heads on a stake. Splay our eyes open--bulging.

But what makes us the experts? Why do we yearn to slander each other's work? Do we go to an art museum, stare at a new painter's art and say, "You used way too much green. It would have been much better had you used red." Who are we to say we know his best form of art? I mean, even different cultures differ in preferences for stories.

I remember Robert McKee saying in STORY (my favorite book on writing) that many people in foreign countries more readily embrace films with less happy endings (as opposed to Americans) and they don't mind a wandering plot. The archtype plot is embraced in America, but what about the anti-plot, the mini-plot? Aren't these great artforms, too?

I puzzle over this because I'm sensitive. And sensitive for other people's work, too. And I worry I'll offer a misguided critique to someone when I really should have let their masterpiece be. I don't want to convolute their intended message. Who makes me the expert on advice?

I suppose if we want our art to be embraced we do need to find those who can help us fine-tune our message--our beauty, our emotion, our story, our prose. So my hope is this: to deliver our truest messages, no matter the critics who will shut us down, but cling to those who embrace our message and help us grow.

Not to say we can't grow from those who hate it. I know this is true--we can often make our greatest improvements by listening to the naysayers. But maybe not. Sometimes I think it's important to shut them out, not let them convolute our message. And in turn, not allow ourselves to dismiss another artist's poignant message. Maybe it's okay to let our inner editor idle from time to time. Allow someone's beauty to wash over us.

Allow the art to be.