Storytellersunplugged

by David Niall Wilson

When I was younger, I had a plan that involved growing up to be a minister. In a way, that plan never left me, since I did become ordained through the Universal Life Church, an ordainment every bit as legal as any other, but probably not taken too seriously in most circles. I also had a plan that involved growing up to be a great writer. That plan is also still kicking and breathing, and the question that keeps cropping up – one I’d like to address in this installment of Storytellers Unplugged, is simple. How is the status of “great writer” achieved? Whose judgment is required to make it so? Similar questions could be aimed at the churches who would not consider me an ordained minister, and I think my feelings on that score reflect a greater reality I can apply to writing, and to other aspects of my life.

Let’s put it into perspective. Good, great, lousy, and functional are all words that can be used to modify other words. If you apply them to writing, you require more input to make their meaning clear. The merit of a thing requires a judgment. So, to really assess what’s what, you have to know up front exactly whose word you’re going to accept as the authority.

In the case of my ordainment, it’s a simple question. The only person it matters to is me. I can make what I want of it, but I’m not likely to have folks debating over whether or not I’m a good minister. When you start looking at other roads to the ministry though – different faiths, organized religions and parochial education, you add layers of judgment, and every time you add such a layer, you add the possibility of layers of failure. You can have a rogue priest or a minister who breaks off from the religious canon he’s trained in, but you will never erase the stigma caused by their decisions, made after the fact, to deviate from set beliefs.

I face no such constraints. I represent a ministry that caters to Druids, Wiccans, Shamans, Christians, and any other faith you happen to believe in. In fact, if you really wanted to start your own religion, the best way to do so would be to get ordainment in that faith through the Universal Life Ministry, write a course on your faith, and submit it to their system to be broadcast to Reverends far and wide (among whose number you’ll find at least one cat that I know of). There are no regulations in my faith against which I should be judged, so I’m left with one criterion. In my mind, how do I feel about it? Do I feel like I’m a good proponent of my faith? Do I feel like a good minister? A great minister? I’ll leave that answer for a different time, but as an example it helps me with what’s coming next.

Writing. I recently participated (and am participating, though I’m uncertain why) in a debate that started with the flawed question “Is a great writer one who writes for a lesser, or greater audience?” That might be slightly paraphrased, but the illogic of it is intact. We now go to the criteria. Who or what group will be the judge of good, great, lousy and / or adequate? Isn’t it likely that a great writer is a great writer, and that the audience, the size of the audience, etc. is totally dislocated from the judgment? I think the answer to that is obvious, and my intention isn’t to bring that odd debate here. The question that I’d like to pose instead is, do we put layers of judgment on our shoulders and allow the possible layers of failure to cause us unnecessary stress?

For example. Say I just sat down to write a story – first time out of the gates, no expectations, just had an idea and thought, hey, I should write this down. If there is no outside expectation at this point, no reader in mind, no audience in mind, no market in mind, and so forth, I think I will write with a freedom that can’t ever be regained once one heads into any other type or level of writing. The more people who look at the work, the more angles it is attacked from and the more levels of possible failure are packed in on top, the deeper, thicker, and more complex the pressures acting on the writer, and the writing, become. Say I show that story to one person, and they love it. I’m likely to be pretty pleased, but the next thing I’ll probably want is to have more people like it. Eventually I’ll show it to someone with a critical eye, a bad attitude, or more experience, and they will tell me – honestly – what they think.

From that point on, everything changes. All bets are off. I will wonder what that person will think next time. I will wonder if the people who liked it really liked it, or just said so to make me happy. I’ll wonder if I did it right. I’ll wonder how to make it better, how to please more people, and I’ll worry over other critics who might weigh in that I’ve never interacted with in the past. In short, it’s a coming of age moment that taints every word I will write from then on, to whatever level that I allow. That, then, is the key.

It’s a matter of perspective, and if you want to write professionally and be happy doing it, you need to grasp it tightly and take it to heart. What you write has got to make you happy. Creating stories and novels has to be something you enjoy doing – that you are either driven to do, or at the very least not driven away from doing. You have to keep yourself in the equation, your sense of worth foremost, and apply this to everything you do. It doesn’t matter if you are writing for a media tie-in, a themed anthology, a stand-alone novel, ghost-writing, or doing articles for the local newspaper. They all need an investment from you, and they all need your personal backing to make the grade. Anything less than this will itch at you. It will chew at the back of your mind and irritate you, and when people bring it up you’ll be instantly defensive – not because they attack, but because you already feel as if the work NEEDS defending.

And in the end you won’t have a choice anyway. If writing is in your blood, then even if you write things that don’t make you happy and don’t make your personal grade, your mind will seek a balance. You will eventually not be able to do it any longer, and you’ll move on to something that matters. I have experienced this. Sometimes it’s like the shedding of an old skin. Sometimes it’s a natural transformation. Other times you have to drag yourself from the muck, dust off as best you can, and find a new “groove.”

And if any of you have a crisis of faith, or feel like it no longer has a point, remember that I’m here for you. The not-quite-right Reverend Dave has a very small congregation, but serves a greater world…you are all welcome in my house. And in my house, all the words are sacred…the quest is to find the proper order, the perfect pattern that will make them sing and prophesy and change the world. It’s likely a futile quest, but any quest that has an ending is not worthy of full attention. It will let you down and leave you without purpose.

I’ll pass the donation plate at my next signing…can I get an Amen?
Onward!

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