questions about questions

So I’m reading a series of lectures turned to essays by Margaret Atwood; hence the thoughts about self-expression and writing and art and the like. Things I periodically consider in relation to myself. Then, within a few weeks or so, the very idea that I would consider myself as having anything to do with artistic expression or activities turns to self-disgust that I would ever be so deluded. But that’s another story.

It was funny, because whenever I do go through a period of journaling I generally ask more questions than I write statements. Part of that is because I don’t ever believe I have a definitive answer to anything at all. But part of it is just that by writing the questions, I can consider the answers. And most importantly, any answers I consider are not written down, so I am not committed in any way to them, so no further action is required and they can be conveniently released back into the ether without tainting me in any way. I am very much a freak.

And that was another diversion from my original consideration. The point is, I came upon a paragraph in the book that was generally one question after another about what it means to be an artist in our society, what freedoms and responsibilities are connected with that role, what that role it, et cetera. And it made me think of my typical mode of journal writing.

I don’t know what significance that has, if any, but it made me feel a little less cowardly for doing it. There is always value in asking the questions. I still probably need to focus a little more attention on getting down some possible answers.

"In what ways, if any, does talent set you apart? Does it exempt you from the duties and responsibilities expected of others? Or does it load you up with even more duties and responsibilities, but of a different kind? Are you to be a detached observer, pursuing your art for its own sake, and having arcane kinds of fun -- or rather, experiences that will enrich your understanding of Life and the Human Condition -- and if you do this to the exclusion of other people and their needs, will you become your own sin-soaked gargoyle? Or ought you to be a dedicated spokesperson for the downtrodden of this earth, like Gogol or Charles Dickens or Victor Hugo or the Zola of Germinal or the Orwell of Down and Out in Paris and London? Should you write your own J'accuse, like Zola, or are all such accusations vulgar? Ought you to support worthy causes, or avoid them like the plague? Are you, vis-a-vis the average taxpayer, a superfluous parasite, or the essential heart of the matter? (...) In short: if you acknowledge any responsibility to society at all, even insofar as you claim to describe it, does your vocation make you the master of all you survey, or the slave of somebody else's lamp?" -- Margaret Atwood. Negotiating with the Dead

And maybe because I don't think of myself as an artist (and have never been one), I substitute citizen for writer and life for vocation when I think about many of those questions. I don't know that it holds true as a strict parallel -- well, it doesn't -- but those are the kinds of things I wonder about. And they are questions I have a lot of trouble answering.

questions

What is the deal with it? Why should words be embarrassing? Why is the very act of getting down words triggering such a huge amount of self-censorship? What is the exact attitude to it? Writers have to throw down tons of unimportant, irrelevant, impractical, banal, and uninteresting words all the time to clear out the system and allow the ideas that matter to arise. And seriously, who’s going to see it? And if someone did, who cares? Who are you worried is going to read, judge, condemn, ridicule, feel superior? And what does that matter? Even on-line, so someone reads something you write that’s juvenile or dumb or whiny or whatever; how is that so bad? What is so awful down in your core that can’t be allowed into the light of day? This obsession with hiding away is incomprehensible. I mean, you have like 10 friends total anyway. And none of them would be bothered by anything you would say or write or tell them, probably not pay any attention.

And others are as usual paying more attention to their own stuff to spend time critiquing your life. And what is posterity and perfection of image and why is that important to you of all people? How is that allowed to stop you from doing, writing, saying, expressing, attempting anything at all, especially when you consider you’re only censoring yourself from yourself? Seriously, why the big deal about this? And is it important, irrelevant, minor, major, inconsequential or what to get past it? Would it be helpful or just kind of fun, or mortifying or destructive?

And secondarily, what does that attitude, belief, feeling about life have to do with any other acts and impressions and ambitions you have or don’t? Is it the key to unlocking yourself? Is there a key for that? What self would you be unlocking and what would it mean? Is it possible to open the door on your own? Is it dangerous? Do you have to be brave?