thinking thinking thinking

last night, after an all-day painting session and a little bit of writing at the end, i started thinking about Sylvia Plath. actually, i had thought about her, off and on, all day. about The Bell Jar- what it is. i mean, in terms of genre. it's autobiographical. it's a novel. it is listed as "fiction".

and i started thinking about tags and terms and how every label has a drawback. and it seems like, in spite of their popularity (or because of it), the tag "memoir" or "autobiography" draws a lot of angst from the literary community. it is accused of being "easy" and "lazy". and i think that's really sad and very strange. it presumes that documenting real events, injecting the emotions and fears and anxieties of the time, is an easy task. it also assumes that a person's life has been picturesque, that the problems they faced were no big deal. it's very minimizing. and that's without saying anything about a writer's skill: the dedication required to wrap the reader up in your own history and let them live it as you lived it. the honesty that that requires. and bravery. the whole process is an act of overcoming humiliation. and doing so with beautiful words. or ugly words. whatever is necessary, craft is employed.

but nevertheless, the assumption that memoir and creative non-fiction are some how easier than other forms of writing. i say, skill is skill. and so i wonder... is that why The Bell Jar is in the fiction department? yes, names have been changed to "protect the innocent", but if that's really the only difference between your history and your story, is that a big enough change to call it fiction? i'm sure this is a question that gets wrestled with a lot.

and so i got out of bed and got my copy of The Bell Jar (it's always out on the shelf, not tucked in a row) so i could remind myself how the story begins.

first-person narrative. personal emotional response to an impending execution of criminals. and then the narrator gives us her name. that's the shift. that's what makes it fiction. the name has been changed. and i'm sure certain details have been left out... which assures that other details are (intentionally or not) magnified, brought to the fore-front, drawn more clearly. bias is embraced. and maybe that's the big difference too. The Bell Jar tells a story from one person's perspective and that perspective is embraced with totality. it is not compromised by the charge to explain the emotions or decisions of the other characters. it does not worry itself with ideas of "fair". it tells one story, not all stories, and it does not get sheepish about it.

and that brings up a question i've had for awhile. issues of fairness in art... especially writing.

it's common knowledge that writers end up angering their families. they are accused of not being "fair" to their families within the work. but our families are the first sphere in which we hear the dreadful truth, "Life isn't fair"... so why then is a work of art expected to be? religion, politics, finance, popularity, body issues, disorders of every shape and size and mode: all unfair. and so art should harness this unfairness as well. it is authentic to do so. and honest. or rather, ideas of attempting fairness should be left behind. is this what great writers know?

we know that when The Bell Jar was first published, it was published under a pseudonym. we know that this was done as an attempt to protect Sylvia Plath's mother, save her from mortification and judgement. but those are her own fears talking- the mother's. because i never felt judgemental toward the mother in the story. and granted it all took place in a different era where decorum was expected and dirty laundry was not aired and secrets, even the slightest and smallest, were kept. what a horror to end up having a writer in the family!

all this to say is i am unsure of what specifically divides fiction from creative non-fiction. because creative non-fiction is not the same thing as journalism- a mode of writing where the real names are used and the facts line up and the chronology of events is clear. and a journalist is usually recording someone else's fact and figures, not their own. they have a critical distance between them self and the life they describe. when telling one's own story, that critical distance is gone. it is obliterated. and maybe that's what makes The Bell Jar such a wonderful read- the diary quality of it.

there are so many famous, deeply loved diaries that have been published. and loved for the skill of the writing! the nuance that rises to the surface when censorship and intention fall away... when the audience is gone. some say Sylvia Plath's Journals are her best work. and they'd be just as interesting and compelling even if she wasn't also a "real" writer because the journals themselves are "real" writing. such craft and lyric and fierce desire to pin down a life in words. to make a map. to know something of the self. and diaries are totally biased. one perspective, one story, one idiosyncratic arrangement of fears and hopes and fuck-ups and achievements and struggles.

anyway. i've lost my own question. or answered it.

it's interesting though- these tags we use to describe a literary work. and when someone wants to call a spade and spade and get away with it, ANONYMOUS gets employed. or a pen-name. because we don't want to hurt our families. because we don't want to be "cruel" or "selfish". we want to be fair because the world isn't. and these are wonderful ethical concerns that i think are really important to wrestle with and so i'm glad i'm wrestling with them now, trying to clarify and expand my ideas about what are can be. and be made with. and i think there's a big difference between being honest and being a victim, and it comes down to intention. is there an intention of blame?

to my eye, there is no blame in The Bell Jar. there is the honest addition of self-blame within it - a true portrait of inner turmoil - but still not falling in to sentimentality or romanticising pain or seeking some sort of excuse. it is a crushingly beautiful example of the difference between accuracy and honesty. and i think that when a work focuses on achieving honesty, it falls outside all these useful tags (when wondering what shelf something is found on) and just swims in the big pool of Art.

what do you call yourself?

i woke up early early after a long night of strange dreams... most likely provoked by the movie i watched last night- 7 pounds with will smith. it is probably one of the saddest movies i've ever seen and will smith is such a fine actor (i don't care what anyone says) that when he cries, i cry and that movie just ripped me to shreds. but it is a wonderful story- full of heart-break and compassion and the human urge to seek redemption... and how maybe we go about finding that redemption in ways that no one else can understand or agree with... a definite tear-jerker but that phrase seems so reductive. the movie is profound. in spite of being able to see what the next twist in the story would be, i found the acting and writing of the movie to be stunning. absolutely heart-wrenching. and beautifully done. sad, sad, sad. you are forewarned.

and so, i had strange dreams. none of which i can remember. i got out of bed and made coffee and by 6am i was scribbling, scribbling,scribbling in my notebook. no stopping until 7:01 when i finally looked up and saw that the night was finally gone and that icy-blue was pouring in. traffic was moving on the 2 lane highway and the birds and zany squirrels where moving too. and me, out on my stoop, head and hand crammed in my notebook, feeling as twisted up as all the branches above me...

first thing, i worried that somewhere there's a rule that says i have to pick one or the other: painting or writing. i know this isn't true. no where close to true but it seems to be that a person generally favors one practice over all others. and this morning i realized that i've gotten to the point where painting and writing seem like the same thing to me. they are indistinguishable in terms of practice. they function so much the same way (to me) that i started, stupidly, worrying about titles: Writer. Painter. which one am i? can i be both? is that allowed? can i call myself a writer even though my writing is largely secret? can i call myself a Writer just because of my love for the craft? or does it take more than that? and if i call myself Writer, does Painter suffer for it? can't i just be a regular ol' artist with a big ol' umbrella that all the things i lay my hand to can fit under?

why i started worrying about all this, i'm not sure. and i know it sounds like a silly concern and that i must be wearing my crazy pants today... but if i just say it out-right, if i say it honestly, my concern is this: i don't want to be bad at either art form. i want them both. and i want to be good at them both. no one wants to be bad at something they love.

i think all artists feel this way at times. it isn't insecurity, it's the weight of concern for something cherished. i want to protect these things. i want to protect my practice. and sometimes i worry that i'm floating and i just grab at whatever comes closest. that i am not strict enough. that i am not diligent enough. that i have too many ideas and that satisfying them all means i'm a "jack of all trades, master of none". a fear born in me during art-school. this is the dominant mentality there. if you are a painter, you paint. if you are a writer, you write. don't stray. hone your skills at one thing or you'll be bad (mediocre) at everything. and i fought against that mentality the entire time i was there. the entire time. art school is a wonderful, wonderful place and it's where i learned how to really, truly care about ART. it's where i built my stamina. but this fear was born there as well and i've wrestled with it, off and on, ever since... even though i don't agree with it. my favorite artists are artists who take a multi-disciplinary approach to their work, who aren't limited by genre and let the art, the idea, take whatever form is best. those are the artists i look up to. they are fearless and they trust their practice endlessly. i am trying to leech some of their bravery and just keep going. keep chipping away. keep learning. gain strength. they are the elite. they shine. they are gold.

i hope, one day, to find myself in that lineage of artists who did what loved and didn't second-guess a thing... least of all, their own eyes and hands.