Hard Praise

Do you ever wonder why praise can be so hard to come by? What I'm talking about is not the everyday compliments that follow some people easily, but the kind of recognition that you really want. Being a creator, a real one, you'll often find that genuine compliments regarding the hardest things you set out to do, your greatest accomplishments and the things you are most proud of- they can be surprisingly hard to come by. When I published my last book, I didn't expect fireworks and streamers. But I did feel like it was the best thing I'd ever done in my entire life. It took years- longer than anything else I'd put my mind to. But even from the closest of quarters, the reaction was oddly blank. At first I was perturbed, but that soon changed to curiosity. I've been thinking about why this is lately, and the conclusion I've come to is simultaneously saddening and encouraging.

Examples are the best instructors, and it's examples I'll use. I'm not going to apologise to those I identify by proxy. Being related closely to a writer means your own story will inevitably be cannabalised in uncomfortable ways, and that's something that musttake some getting used to. In any case, the onus is on them for words, or lack of words, that can't be forgotten. The highest praise my mother could produce for my last novel, for example, is that it would be the perfect airport read. Needless to say, that wasn't exactly the intention when I first put pen to paper and with a deal of reflection those words did start to suck a little. It's been a curious pattern, discussing my work with her; she tried to draw me into a default of self-criticism. I wanted to scream- that's not necessary! I'm my own harshest critic by a long shot. My father, on the other hand, has not even allowed himself once to use the word 'good' in connection with my writing on one single occasion. The best I've gotten is 'interesting', which is a word that could equally be applied to a skin condition. That's a curious thing, I think. My book wasn't perfect, but it was good. I know it was- so why not use the word? Even if it was bad, the fact that it is makes it good, because producing a novel is a private bastard of a process. It's not easy, you know that, even when you haven't done it. Good, two syllables, would have been everything. You have to ask yourself why that's so hard, even after I've told him what a cold slap it is. Even after I'd asked him, directly, why he didn't just lie to me? Would that be hard? The final fixture are the words of an ex-partner, who told me at the conclusion of our relationship that if I kept putting my writing first I would die alone. As she was saying it, I felt like screaming out that you can't put words like that back where they came from. I'm the wrong person to say that to, because one day it'll be peeking back at you from a page somewhere. That's not out of spite, it's just the way it is. The confounding part is that privately I don't think these words represent what those people really think. I know they don't think my writing is suitable only for the airport, that it's not good at all, or that if I follow it it will lead me only to a solitary grave (!) There are other reasons.

It makes you wonder why endorsement can be so hard to come by. It reminds me that jealousy is the most involuntary of all strong emotions. True words, those. It's also never deflated me. I know I'm a good author, and I know I'm a successful one. I'm a successful writer because I successfully write books from beginning to end. That's good enough for me. I don't measure my achievement by the reception they receive or how popular they are. Consider for a second the quality of the most popular art- regardless of medium, if you took the most widely re-printed painting, the best-selling novel, the most-downloaded track the thing that the would all have in common is that they are all pretty crap. Good work is unpopular. That's not to take ignominy as some kind of endorsement, but it's worth keeping in mind that lacking popular success has a very loose relationship with the quality of what you are producing. I don't want to write Twilight, I don't want to be Justin Bieber. I don't want my column syndicated by news.com, even if it does mean a loft in Tribeca. It's not presumptuous- it's my own review of what I'm capable of. I'm going to apply my energy to doing good things, not popular things. I'd prefer to prostitute my body than my writing, to be honest. The closest synonym is that of an aspiring athlete- I know that on my best day, I'm as good as anybody in the world. I don't need external validation to let me know that novels are worth wrapping every detail of my life around. I know, I don't need it, but of course it doesn't hurt. I just think it's objectively fascinating that it can be so hard to come by, even from those who you might assume you could expect it from.

Thickening the absurdity is the extraordinary ease of validating someone else's efforts. I try always to be earnest, but there is some flexibility here. Even if some creative product not immediately good, my temptation is to endorse it. Try these words on for a second: "I think you are a really good _____" . Blank being the painter, writer, stencil-artist, whatever it may be. For me, that's the easiest thing to say in the universe, and I make a point of saying it as much as I can. It's amazing the effect it can have. At it's best, one sentence can be a revolution. Compliments are easy, but it occurs to me now that they're only easy when they come from a firm base of confidence in what you do yourself. I might find it a little less easy if I didn't not only believe in my potential, but move heaven and earth to actually pursue it. Jealousy, involuntary as it is, might not allow that. It might hold my tongue like a pair of tongs. It's reassuring to have a mission in life, even if you're failing it. That truth can be extended. I recently had somebody I had met, a Scottish person of middle age, ruefully confess that he wasn't too good socially. I contradicted him, said he was an interesting person and I enjoyed his company. He nearly folded in half with gratitude. The effect was physical- once he'd recovered, he rushed to shake my hand and thank me like I'd just rescued him from some place of hot misery. It really made me wonder why so many people have so much trouble saying such simple things. Once again, with a certain base of confidence it's easy. I might have had trouble saying that to him if I didn't think it was true of myself.

I told that sad anecdote about my father to another writer recently, and he bristled with outrage and called him a bastard. I had to correct him- the reality was the opposite. My parents are incredible people, and my respect for them is absolute. The absence of that review was a sadness, not an indictment. That was just one thing, and it wasn't really how he felt- I know that. My father is an exceptional person, and he has been exceptionally supportive of my mission in life in so many practical ways. There's an element of the absurd here- nobody has leant me more support than him, nobody has done more for my writing even if he has never been able to tell me he thinks I am a good writer. It's not about me, or my writing, I replied. It's about him. It's a little sad, but it's not what he really thinks. Nor does my mother think that my novels are fit only to divert, or my ex consider me doomed to a solitary grave. The only reasonable reaction to that last accusation is a mixture between mirth and sadness. I know the place that it came from- the realisation that writing would always be my most important priority, and by extension that place would not be occupied by her. I think that's a slightly juvenile thing to get outraged over. Of course, that's not a question you should ever ask a creative person, because the answer will probably make you uncomfortable. The final insult to her was the when I articulated my mission and my to-the-death commitment to it. Not everybody has a purpose like that, and when you hear not only about somebody else's purpose but the fact they're willing to rearrange everything around it, I imagine it can invite some uncomfortable reflection about your own legacy. When you hear about somebody's novel, or series of oil paintings, it asks you to remember all of those creative pursuits you attempted, and for whatever reason, discontinued. It reminds you of what the final product can be when you don't stop, when you continue to hone your craft over the course of years, decades, and the rest of your life. When it comes from somebody right next to you, somebody as ordinary as you, that reminder can be even more uncomfortable. Jealousy is aspiration. It can be as blind and senseless as love, and I think it comes from the other half of the same part of your person. I take it as a compliment. If that makes me sound smug, or if this post makes you angry in a way that's hard to describe, then that might be a sign that your own mission needs a little more of your time. Life gets in the way of your mission, whatever it is. Shifting responsibilities and relationships is not always possible. But if you want it badly enough, you'll find the time.