Donald Maass said about originality in fiction, “Originality can come only from what you bring of yourself to your story.”
I think this idea is not only true in fiction, but also in blogging. If, for instance, your interest is in writing, as one of mine is, you can read thousands of writers and would-be writers blog about their experiences. Some writers are notably successful with these blogs; others have extremely small audiences (Hi Mom and Dad!). The end goal of starting such a blog is not, at this point, to educate people about writing and the writing life — if people want to be educated, there are plenty of established places to go.
What’s interesting about writers as a group is that, in many cases, they inherently have something to say to the world. In the blogosphere, this often ends up being about writing because that’s what writers spend their free brain cycles thinking about, but unless they’re writing a how-to-write book (which I’m told actually often sell better than novels, but that’s neither here nor there), a writer will be talking about other subjects in their actual creative work. Part of being a writer, for me, is having that burning sensation somewhere in my chest that demands that I express myself. Concurrent to that need is the belief that I actually have something to say, and that I can say it in a way that is unique to who I am. Hence this blog, which is not primarily about writing so much as it is about what it means to be an artist, and more broadly, what it means to be human. Amy-style, of course.
We don’t tap into our originality by pretending to be someone else, by hiding behind someone else more important than ourselves, or by adopting self-defeating thought patterns. (“I don’t actually have anything important or interesting to say” or “Why should anyone listen to me?” come to mind.) We do it by engaging others in conversation about what is important to us, by daring to be both different and honest, and by having the courage to not always agree.
Playing it safe can sometimes be a decent strategy to employ in life, but when it comes to creating art or forging deep, intimate relationships, it can lead us away from our true authenticity. For example, I was an amateur pop songwriter for many years. At one point, after I had amassed a healthy repertoire of songs, I recorded them all, posted them on the Internet, and asked several friends to listen to them and rank their top five favorite songs. I already knew which songs I thought were the best, both in terms of their musical qualities, the lyrics, and my ability to sing them well. But I figured I would learn something from the experiment, and maybe come out knowing the one or two truly best songs that showcased my abilities.
What I found out was twofold: first, that my friends were more likely to pick the songs they were already familiar with. (This is a well-known psychological effect that must drive some musicians crazy, as they are then forced to play and replay and replay the same top hit song from however many years ago.) Secondly, and more surprisingly (and this was especially true of those listeners who weren’t as familiar with my songs), a few of my guinea pigs expressed a strong preference for my song “Crying”.
Why was this a surprise? Because “Crying” had only barely made the cut of the songs I even included in this little experiment. It was raw and edgy, hurt my throat to sing because whenever I sang it vocal technique went straight out the window, and it tore me apart to write it. Singing it literally felt like sobbing. Plus I didn’t think it was any good – it certainly wasn’t as polished as any of my other songs. Even now, it makes me cringe to listen to it.
It did, however, lay bare my soul and a whole lot of feelings I was keeping inside. I wasn’t playing it safe even a little bit when writing or singing. And some of my listeners heard something that was true and passionate in that song, and so it was their favorite.
I don’t know about you, but I’ll take the audience that recognizes passion and authenticity over the one that wants the same old, same old repeated for the thousandth time. I’ll take them any day of the week.
The Practical Free Spirit 