So for those of you that don’t keep a running calendar of all the international writing festivals taking place in Armagh City, County Armagh, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom, this past Monday marked the beginning of the John Hewitt International Summer School, which is an international writers conference and seminar that features presentations, readings, and yours truly (along with the rest of the Armagh Project gang). It’s been a positively fierce two days thus far, usually culminating in me being absolutely worn out, questioning whether or not I’d really like to write a blog entry, and wondering further who, in fact, is reading this gratuitous navel-gazing,

Regardless, I indulge myself on a regular basis and this moment is no different, so get ready for a triple-whammy of my life story tonight, as I’ll be writing further on my workshopping experiences at the Hewitt and 3AM sentimental drivel momentarily.

But first, I wanted to talk about something that struck me tonight at a performance of The Play of the Book, presented by the Wireless Mystery Theatre and writer Ian Sansom. For those of you that aren’t familiar (and, pretentiousness aside, I have absolutely no idea why anybody would), The Play of the Book is a play/novel wherein Ian Sansom, playing a self-aware, self-depreciating version of himself, examines his creative process when writing a new book, with the help of five musical, not often constructive voices in his head. I honestly cannot see anywhere aside from a writing festival where this play could go over well; it relies heavily on appearing before a very specific audience.

But I’m not here to criticize the play, although I did quite enjoy it, but it does embody the very narcissism and gratuitous introspection that I actively partake in without getting paid. That’s more my point. It’s an examination of the role of the author and an attempt to establish a common mythos of writers and creativity. That’s a big steak to chew, right? But it did get me thinking (I know, right?) about who a writer is, what it says about me that I am a writer?

I’ve come up with a pretty fancy list:

• Writers, at least successful writers, do not write exclusively for themselves. (I’ve even heard recently that it may be best to think that one should write with an audience. Jury’s still out on that one.) Sansom kept two tracks of books that he has written: books that have been written and books that have been published. Guess where the ones he wrote for himself fell. But really, even I will admit that artistry, at least artistry that puts food on the table, is not an activity that takes place in a vacuum and never has been. But there must be some individual element to it, right? What the hell am I doing here, if not purely to put my personal ruminations to paper and wait with indignation and impatience for the raucous applause from the audience? This is supposed to be an exercise in selfishness, c’mon!
• Writers, at least successful writers, hate everything about themselves and everything that they do. They not only constantly degrade themselves in a way that is usually reserved for stand-up comedy, they’re never satisfied with anything they produce from their tireless efforts. Absolutely never. This was exemplified in the show when Sansom referred to Sigmund Freud’s interpretation of the production of art as a stunting of growth at the anal stage of mental development, wherein the production of art is a substitute for an infant’s primary creative function, the production of feces. The important part of that is Sansom, while disagreeing with literally equating his work with shit, does not push the pendulum too far in the opposite direction.
• Writers, at least successful writers, have no clue where their ideas come from and don’t look to each other for inspiration, because nobody finds it the same way. I mean, at it’s core, it’s probably the same process: living, questioning, evaluating. Neil Gaiman lays it out pretty well. But, one thing I think most writers agree on, despite quibbling about the source of inspiration, is that writers (and “creative types”, at-large) have this special thing where they give a shit about their ideas. Because everybody lives (even mundanely), everybody questions (even superficially), and everybody evaluates (even simply), yet I would guess a very limited portion of the population are writers. In short, it’s because writers don’t stop at the idea creation, they don’t wait for the perfect idea, they just write.
• Finally, and most importantly, writers, at least successful writers, are very, very needy. Despite our recognition of individual value in artistic endeavors and all this hoopla about creative freedom, writers crave validation and they cannot get it from themselves. Why else would we publish anything, for the thrill of ridicule? This was quite present in the show tonight, particularly in the ending. Sansom ended his final monologue by stating, “It is a lucky writer that is struck by lighting before he ever hears a word about his work. A luckier writer is one that hears a clap of thunder nearby.” He walked off of the stage, and the band each held up letters cut out from newspaper that read “A clap”, indicating it was time for the audience’s applause. Sure it was anti-climactic and a little schmaltzy, but it rings true: without an audience and without readers, there would not be writers. Even if written language existed, but there were no readers, nobody would ever write something creative. At the end of the day, the writer needs the reader more than the reader needs the writer.

So, back to introspection. What has this taught me about me? It’s taught me, despite my chagrin, my defiance, and my Nathan Fillion-esque ruggedness, I am definitely a writer and it is for those reasons above.