Writing as an Art Form

If I asked you to close your eyes and think about art, you’d probably conjure up images typically associated with the fine arts—things like painting, sculpting, and photography. If you stretched your mind a little further, you might even bring in elements of the performing arts—dancing, theater, even music. Unfortunately, far too few of us think to include the literary arts—poetry, journalism, short stories, and novels.

Anyone who’s been serious enough to try their hand at creative writing knows how frustrating it can be at times. Carving out time to write every day while juggling other competing priorities can be difficult and often requires sacrifice. When you finally do carve out time to sit down and write, you realize that locking yourself away in front of a computer can feel awfully lonely. Then there’s the problem of coming up with fresh new ideas that don’t come across as contrived or cliche.

With all the pressure that writers place on themselves, it’s easy to forget that writing is supposed to be an artistic expression, and that writers, just like any other artist, must practice their craft constantly if they expect to one day become masters in their field.

The definition of art is very broad. Merriam-Webster says art is “the conscious use of skill and creative imagination, especially in the production of aesthetic objects.” Given that definition, it’s easy to see that writers do in fact create art by employing creativity, skill, and imagination. But even more than that, it’s important for writers to see themselves as true artists. Doing so will help them avoid, or at least more constructively deal with, so many of the frustrations that easily beset them.

Consider as an example two piano players. The first is a concert pianist with more than twenty years of performance experience. The second is a young woman in her early teens who only recently began taking private lessons for an hour every day after school. Imagine sitting blindfolded in your seat and listening to each of these individuals play their favorite piece. I’d bet you cold hard cash money that you could probably tell in less than ten seconds which was the pro and which was the beginner.

How could you tell so quickly? Perhaps you’re a highly trained music critic. Maybe you’re an accomplished pianist yourself. Possibly, but I highly doubt it. I’d venture to say that just about anyone could tell the difference based simply on the auditory clues you picked up, probably without even realizing it. Subtleties such as the selection’s richness and depth, the emotions and thoughts you experienced as you listened to it, the confidence with which each piece was played, the number of errors you detected . . . all these helped you tell who was who.

What is it precisely that separates the professional from the amateur? Does the pro possess more natural talent? More skill? More aptitude? In our example, how do you think the amateur felt about her own skills and abilities after hearing the pro play? Do you think she felt frustrated? Does she consider herself a failure because she couldn’t play as well as the pro? Does her own inexperience make her feel like giving up and calling it quits?

The answer to these questions should of course be an emphatic “No!” The pro has more than twenty years of experience behind him, giving him a tremendous advantage over the novice at this singular moment in time. But if the novice dedicates herself to her playing, demonstrates real passion for what she does, and practices hard every day, then who’s to say she won’t play just as well as—perhaps even one day surpass—the abilities of the pro?

What about “natural” talent, skill, and ability? Aren’t some people just born with more aptitude for doing certain things? Personally, I don’t believe so. People excel at doing great things because they have a passion for doing them, and because they work hard every single day at improving themselves. They don’t do it because they have to—they do it because they want to. Talent isn’t something you’re born with, as many people tend to believe. Talent is merely a byproduct of a tremendous amount of passion combined with a ton of really hard work and dedication to getting better.

If you have a real passion for writing—or anything else for that matter—no amount of failure or frustration or rejection can ever make you quit. In fact, for people with true passion, the opposite is actually true: if you truly have a passion for doing something, frustration and failure only encourage you to try harder the next time so you can get better. The only thing that can ever make you quit after enduring so much hard work and embarrassment and failure is if you decide it simply isn’t worth your time any more.

So find the passion in your writing, your dancing, your singing, your music, your painting, your sketching, your sculpting, and whatever other voodoo that you do, and work hard at it every day, not because you have to, but because you love to. Your potential as a true artist is as great as any Renoir, Mozart, or Baryshnikov. Take up your instrument in whatever form compels you and create something beautiful for yourself and our world.