Sink or Swim . . . or Garden
It’s a weird thing to be a creative person in 2022.
No, let me rephrase that. It’s terrifying.
At no other time in history has there been such an abundance of art and entertainment, often instantly available and in every form. Not only do creatives have an increasing number of other artists to compete against, but there are also the ever-present specters of past luminaries who continue to influence and affect art and culture long after their passing. For anyone looking to add their own contribution, the prospects are enormously intimidating.
To be clear, this is also wonderful. We have more choice than ever before. If there’s a certain niche or genre you love, it’s probably now available to you. If there’s a popular book series you like, it will probably get an adaptation at some point. Streaming is great on so many levels. Audiobooks and podcasts are making stories available to those who might not otherwise have time for them. Every music/book/media website/source/marketplace offers us endless ads and recommendations for new things to check out. We are swimming in a massive, planet-sized ocean of content.
Which, to go back to my first point, is terrifying for those who create. (There is also the dreaded Fear-Of-Missing-Out for the audience/consumers, but that’s for another time). It’s terrifying because most of what is made sinks to the murky depths of this content ocean like so much detritus. Unseen. Unsung. Forgotten. It’s enough to make any creative person seriously reconsider making any kind of art at all.
There is also the danger of thinking (or making others think) that only the good stuff is at the surface. And if creative people believe this, the question then becomes, “How do I get to the surface?” There is no shortage of methods. You buy up all the ads you can. Get promotions. Get on a podcast. Get on the conference circuit. Be active on every social media app. Become an inspirational speaker. Go viral. Get a TV deal. Win awards. Never stop pushing. Never stop kicking as hard as you can. Or you suck, and so does anything you create.
It's not true. But it’s tempting to think it is. Those things can help spread the word, of course. But they don’t actually ascribe value—neither to the piece of art, nor to the artist themselves. This explains why films/books/music with huge marketing budgets can still be horrible. It’s also a good reason to remember that not everyone on a podcast or a TED Talk or who writes anything at all is better than anyone else. But we are led to think so. We are told that unless we have this many followers or that many likes and views, we might as well have not done/said/created anything at all. Which is ridiculous.
And yet, like that insidious brain-burrowing worm creature from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, the lie continues to sit there for many of us.
In the days following the launch of The Wickwire Watch, I’ve been struggling with this. Writing has always been a part of my life. I am not not new to it. But I am a new author, and still very much learning “The Game” that is the publishing industry. It has often felt like shouting into the wind or being a microorganism in that endless ocean (even smaller than detritus!). What is an anxious creative person to do?
Stop being anxious? Okay, do you even know me? That’s not gonna happen. It’s just not.
Stop creating? I could. Except I am deeply miserable whenever I do stop.
Make art only for myself? Maybe. But then I think of all the wonderful artists who have meant so much to me in my own life, and how grateful I am that they didn’t just ‘keep it to themselves’. What if my work could do the same for someone else? Even in the smallest way?
The only other option is to stop thinking of the creative field as an ocean. Or as a ladder or a food chain or a battlefield. So, what is the replacement?
A little while ago, I was listening to Jonathan Roger’s podcast, “The Habit”, and he mentioned a concept that made me stop in my tracks; don’t think of it as a hierarchy, think of it as territory. A garden or a plot of land. Whatever you are given to do, think of it as a particular lot you’ve been commissioned to care for and practice stewardship over. No one else will inhabit that space of ground. It is uniquely yours. It may not be the biggest of them all or situated in the best spot. But it is yours, and yours alone. You may take inspiration from other gardens. But no two plots of ground are the same and therefore cannot (and should not) be cultivated the same way.
And yes, you can fall back to all the means and methods of the “The Game” (whatever it may be in your creative field), and you can try to make it the brightest, snazziest, technicolor Oz-Wonderland-Middle Earth of them all! Or you can faithfully and quietly tend the ground to its true potential. Not what anyone else thinks it’s supposed to be. They don’t get to decide that. You do. And if people don’t turn up in droves at the garden gate, clamoring to get in, that’s okay. If they look in and see there’s no TV series or flashy superhero or spicy romance to draw them inside, you let them go their way. You don’t actually have to fight to drag them inside.
I dearly love my stories and characters. I would not trade them for anyone else’s, nor would I have them be anyone or anything else. They are mine, and I am theirs, and together we will tend this plot of ground—small though it may be—and gladly welcome anyone who would peek inside the walls.
I am also immensely grateful for each and every visitor who has dropped by. I would also encourage anyone with even the smallest inclination to be creative to please create. Art, in any form, is one of the best ways to make this world a better place. Don’t let anything frighten you off from it. Just keep digging away in your own personal secret garden. I’ll be in mine nearby, sending out the occasional messenger pigeon.