As I sit here at yet another airport at 3 a.m, I think of writing and of stories; of poetry and blogging. I think of how art is valuable and worthy, regardless of what form it is in; whether or not it is to be published (and where).
I would have this obsession until very recently, one that would predictably lead me to create less art. What is the point of this piece if it is not ‘out there’? my inner critic would ask. If my stories are just sitting in my ‘in progress’ folder without getting published in the very best, the top-level, the universally accredited, what even was the point?
What a silly way to look at it.
I recently encouraged more than one person to write. One of my students wanted to start blogging in his niche, and a reader who barely ever wrote showed me her first piece. It occurred to me seeing the sense of meaning and excitement and my acknowledgment shine in their eyes, that this was perhaps the point.
(Perhaps this is my calling? I am an encourager of art? Isn’t it funny how so many meaningful jobs are never given job titles?)
Awards and publications are just that: titles. Awards are awarded by committees made up of humans, each of whom has a different idea of what good writing means. For my writing to be good, it does not need an acceptance or approval from Man Booker or Pulitzer. It does not need to be published in the New Yorker.
But then what decides the worth of my art?
First, like the human life and its journey, art has intrinsic worth: it has worth simply because it exists. Because for some reason you put pen to paper and wrote. Or sketched, or doodled for that matter.
Second, you decide the worth of your writing. Did it provide you with catharsis? Did it matter to one person? I recently met a friend – not more than an acquaintance then – who I had been brave enough to give the first draft of Biryani and Tahchin to read. She told me she understood so much more – and not just about me – after reading it, but that for some reason she couldn’t stop eating Tahchin. She also got her friends excited about the book, friends who had never met me or even knew what the heck Tahchin was.
Your work has impact. In tiny ways that touch a heart, or in big bestseller ways. I am here today because of authors’ and artists’ art that impacted me. And I intend to pass it on. So you right there? You, creating new techniques to doodle or writing free form poetry you’re embarrassed to even read yourself? Your art matters. Don’t hide it, and don’t hide from it. Don’t think no one wants to see your art, because I do. I am someone.
Written by : raaziasajid
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Fab writing as always. I miss reading stuff like this. Great going slm8 ;)
thanks!