When Practice Doesn't Make Perfect

"Are you still writing?" my friend asked, or, rather, several friends have asked. I hesitated, for I no longer write every day. Sometimes an entire week goes by without a typed word. And on those days when I do write, I no longer spill out 1500 to 2000 words but measure them out by teaspoons.

Even now, I stare at screen trying to remember how to construct sentences and paragraphs. Subject, predicate; nouns and verbs.

The story turns and twists in my head, always there, always knocking, wanting more than I can give. And I wonder, what makes an artist?

My dictionary tells me that an artist is a person who practices any of the various creative arts, such as a sculptor, novelist, poet, or filmmaker. How much practicing is enough to be considered an artist? How many words must be produced? (And do words on "Words with Friends" count?)

Perhaps asking if I'm writing is the appropriate question, but I want to know: Am I still writer?

I appreciate that word "practice," the undefinableness of being an artist. For it's not in the number of shows or performances or published works, I suppose, although perhaps those deserve mention. It's not in the type or amount of training, although these are important. I practice these words and stories, even when an entire edit seems to turn the story in a direction I don't like in the end, even when the words are deleted and the stories wander endlessly, one story for a year and a half now, seeking sanctuary and rest and home.

I sit at keyboard in stray moments to practice, for there is no perfection in my work these days and perhaps there never will be, but what is perfection in a story?

All this begs the question if artist is identity or function. Cases can be made for each. I long to say "identity," for this gives me freedom. I am artist, I assert, despite my practice and perfection, or lack thereof. And this work, or practice, that I do is not always easily separable from my personhood, from the way I relate to the world.

Then I go on further rabbit trails on the nature of work as given by God in the garden, corrupted by the Fall, and being redeemed until we see the true beauty of work in the city, and is not artistry work in this sense? I do not mean in an eight to six, feed my family, sense (for man shall not live by contributor copies alone), but in that it is God-given, corrupted, yet being redeemed. And if this is the case, doesn't it make it a function in the same way that an entrepeneur practices business or a pastor practices shepherding? We take these gifts we've received to glorify God and serve his kingdom. To lose them does not make us any less human, created in the image of God, despite my feeling that to lose words is to lose breath.

In other words, regardless of how I answer this question, am I writer, I am still Heather, for I have been crucified with Christ and live his resurrected life. I am, despite my daily word count, child of God, created uniquely by and for him.

As child of God, I am not recused from work but am free to enjoy God, enjoy family, and enjoy work, to pursue words and stories whether my butt is on chair every day or not.

Heather A. Goodman practices writing, piano, and knitting.

Comments

[Glynn]

I write every day. It may be a little, or it may be a lot, it may be good and it may be bad, but I write every day. I can't imagine not writing. It would be like not breathing. I don't set daily goals or quotes, but I think I do set "daily."

[Joelle]

I get this, since my seasonal depression leaves me too drained to write in the summers. Every autumn is a struggle to start again, to convince myself I haven't lost all the talent, skill, and practise that was inacessible during the summer. I am still an artist, even if I can't write for months on end--in the depths of my mind stories are still percolating, small details of life are settling into my memory, strange plot-strands suddenly snap together...

I guess to me, all of the work isn't done when the words are put on the page. There's as much labor beforehand, or alongside away from the typing, as there is in putting it down, or in polishing the first draft after it's complete.

[Heather]

Joelle--yes, I think that percolating stage has become more important to my writing. When I do sit down to work on a short story, there's more ready than I was aware.

[Susan Fish]

Who is it -- maybe Natalie Goldberg - who said, "I am a writer even when I don't write, just as I am a sexual person even when I am celibate." Something like that. It resonated with me.

[Jeanne Damoff]

"the way I relate to the world"

I think that's a big part of what makes an artist. Art is a way of seeing, and it's taking what you see and communicating through words, color, imagery, music, movement -- whatever medium expresses it best. That's why you can only teach art to a point. You can provide tools and techniques, but you can't give someone else eyes to see. God does that.

[Reneamac.blogspot.com]

Wonderful: enjoyable and thought-provoking; reminds me a bit of L'Engle's Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. You're in good company Writer, Friend, Wife, Mother... Heather.