You're so vain...

Writing is an exercise in vanity. That's not all writing is but the initial premise of all writing-- that someone would find the words you craft interesting and worth their time-- that premise begins with a flash of vanity. Perhaps all writing comes from the "Look at me" gene innate to the human condition.

I think most writers are more than a little uncomfortable with the vain conceit. We don't like thinking ourselves as worthy. I often wonder if the furniture maker suffers the same? Or the potter? The sculptor? The musician? (Painters of course do but I have found, as a general rule, painters are simply bat-shit crazy.)


Artisans begin with the ideal of something beautiful, well-crafted, something enjoyable or meaningful, something worthy of others' attention-- and then the work begins to fulfill that ideal as best we can effort. The risk of every artistic endeavor is to come up short to the ideal. We writers tend to jump to that conclusion before pen ever meets page.

Does the furniture maker? The potter? The sculptor? Perhaps, but writers short-circuit the vain conceit faster than any group of artisans I know. To do otherwise means we have to begin by thinking the effort is worth it, even if it ends in failure; and also that we are worthy of the endeavor, even if we fail. I know craftsmen and artisans who are perfectly comfortable with failure. I've yet to meet the writer.

What does that say about the craft of writing? Craftsmanship means failure. It means setbacks. It means dozens of works that don't go anywhere or do anything. There is confidence in craftsmanship-- a confidence born not out of success but out of disappointments and a simple rock-strong belief that tomorrow will be better.

To begin that journey towards craftsmanship, as a writer, I need to get more familiar with my sense of vanity than my sense of failure. Writing as a craft begins with believing that there is worth in the words I will craft. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but if I write every day failures be damned then maybe just maybe one piece, one stanza, one graf, one work will rise to the ideal and become something almost magical: significant.