Mira would sit in the lamp store and gaze at one lamp in particular. It had green blobs and red blobs; little polished stones of coloured glass that were held together by a network of iron. The shade was a half-oval, with a beautiful iron stand. It was the most wonderful thing Mira had ever seen
[…]
It was the essential humility of the lamp that drew her to it. It had not been made by someone with any sort of insight into how a person might want to appear to others, or who believed that people acquired things to show them off to their friends. It had not been made by someone who imagined that an object fit into a greater system of values, or could place its owner among others with similar taste. It had been made by a humble person who simply thought, Now I will make my next lamp.
—Pure Colour by Shiela Heti
I’m on the train to PA and struggling to come up with things to write about—or rather, something I’m willing to finish writing. I’ve got two essays partially written, and at least four half-baked ideas floating around the bland, watery soup of my brain. I feel held back from finishing or even starting some of my favorite ideas, because I feel pressured to turn them into something… good.
Why is that? No one is making me write this crap. I don’t have a boss, and I’m not beholden to an “audience”. The occasional feedback I get from readers (AKA y’all) is almost always positive, and when I do get pushback it’s always about the content (i.e. the argument I’m making) rather than the style. [If you think my writing style sucks idk what to tell you—stop reading?]
By process of elimination it’s clear that this pressure comes from within. It’s my ego telling me that I’m too good, important, or special to publish something that’s badly written or uninteresting, or isn’t at the very least fun to read. This inflated self-judgment is not based in reality. Obviously I am not above writing something bad and dumb and boring—I am just a guy. We are all just a guy!
It simply does not matter whether or not these essays are good. I clearly care about it on an ego level, but I’d like to care less, because being good isn’t the point. I’m doing this enjoy the writing process, and to publish things that help me connect with the folks I care about. Slaving over better-researched, more stylistically-interesting essays is beside both of those points, so I’m fighting against the urge to hold myself standard that’s too high to meet at the publishing pace I’m aiming for.
What’s the point of trying to make good things in the first place, and how do we set the bar for what “good” even means? The first question is easy: it feels good to push yourself, and to reach new heights of skill and excellence. It’s immensely satisfying to look back at essays I wrote as little as a year ago and see how much I’ve improved. Comparing yourself to your past and seeing a clear upward trajectory can be extremely motivating.
When you turn your comparative eye outward, though, things get a bit thornier. Back when I was on Instagram more, I followed a bunch of comic book artists. It was inspiring to see other artsis making such excellent work in so many varied styles, and often it would encourage me to practice drawing more. It was a double-edged sword, though, because just as often I’d find myself demotivated by seeing how amazing and productive they already were. If I’d never be as good or as fast as they were, I may as well stop trying.
But just to reiterate: being “already good” (or good ever) is beside the point. Unless your livelihood depends on it, you don’t need to make things that are outstanding in the eyes of the wider culture. You don’t need to paint as well as Frida Kahlo or write as well as Kurt Vonnegut. If we want to convince ourselves to keep making things, we need another motivation besides “creating societally important works of art”, because the vast majority of us will simply never do that. [And even if we do, we’ll soon be just as dead as everyone else.] We must simply look our blank document, or empty canvas, or unformed lump of clay, and think: “Now I will make my next lamp.”
That is, if you like making lamps. If you don’t have creative interests, that’s also fine! Not only do you not need to make good things, you do not need to make things. Living a good life is mostly about maintenance: eating, sleeping, brushing your teeth; the endless menial tasks we must perform to keep entropy at bay. Besides that, (according to my personal value system), it’s about:
- Helping other people (and non-human organisms, if you’re especially cool)
- Doing whatever feels meaningful or fulfilling for you (as long as that doesn’t inadvertently hurt other people (and non-human organisms, if you’re especially cool))
For me, writing helps satisfy the fulfillment need, and as far as I can tell it isn’t hurting anyone. If you get your fulfillment from going out clubbing or ritually sacrificing a Chipotle burrito under the full moon, that’s great! Go for it, dude.