On Goya and Inadequacy

There is that moment in every artist's life (or in this case writer's life) where you wonder if you are cut out to do what you want to do.

I think of myself as a decent writer.  But sometimes I read the works of others and think to myself, "I will never be able to come up to their level.  No matter how much I try."  Sometimes that is reading published authors.  Sometimes that is just reading someone else's blog and marveling at the sheer artistry of it.  When that happens I want to choke someone.  I restrain myself though.

All I can think of is the first time I got to see a real Goya.  It sucked me in, and I decided that there was nothing that I could ever do to compete with that, so I would never become a painter (even though at the time I loved drawing, and was thinking of pursuing that and painting).  I stared into the black face of Goya's heart and realized that the sheer emotion, and hideous darkness was something that I would never be able to harness.  Could the world possibly be that dark, could the very soul of man really ache that much for some kind of hope, any hope.  That was an emotion I feel incapable of inducing.

There are writers that do that to me too.  And then I think about sending in an article to a literary journal, and wonder if I can handle the fact that they are going to reject it.  I mean mentally I know that they may not, but fear dictates that they will.

It is weakness, and it is stupid.

I need to get over it, and think that maybe just maybe someone will read what I write, and think, "Christ, I wish I could write like that."

Thanks Goya.

Vile under Virtue

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

If you are unable to resist the temptation to choke someone, you know I am always here to fulfill your need. :)

Gabe said...

If I would have been walking and read that, I would fall over in a swoon.

Seriously.