Working on My Work, Which No One Understands

Posted by J. Mark Bertrand
on Thursday, April 19, 2007
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Today, my agent posted a list of "impolite types in the business" that is worth checking out. It's customary, of course, not to point out such things, but I don't think a dose of honesty is going to hurt Chip's bad boy image, and it might just help some folks who aren't aware that what they've been doing sabotages their efforts. One point in particular rang true with me -- because I've been there:

Why is it bad writers always think their work is going to improve if they can explain it? Do they plan to visit each buyer of their book in order to explain their concepts in person?

I saw this happen time and again in grad school. After a ritual evisceration during critique, the author-victim would follow up with a series of arguments and justifications, explaining to the class what they "missed" in the story. Whenever it happened, I could hear the lyrics of King Missle's "Sensitive Artist" strumming in the background:

I am a sensitive artist. / Nobody understands me because I am so deep. / In my work, I make allusions to books that nobody else has read, / music that nobody else has heard; / and art that nobody else has seen. / I can't help it because I am so much more intelligent and well-rounded than everyone who surrounds me. / I stopped watching tv when I was six months old because it was so boring and stupid, / and started reading books and going to recitals and art galleries. / I don't go to recitals any more, because my hearing is too sensitive, / and I don't go to art galleries any more because there are people there / and I can't deal with people because they don't understand me. / I stay at home, reading books that are beneath me and working on my work, / which no one understands. / I am sensitive.

If you've written a story so deep that no one "gets" it, you may be a genius. Then again, maybe you're just fooling yourself. Perhaps the problem is that they do get it, but there's not much there to get. Whatever the case, your work has to speak for itself, because you won't be there to explain it to every reader.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling low and Laurie comes in to ask what I did with my day, I answer in the immortal words of "Sensitive Artist": I stayed home, I tell her, reading books that are beneath me and working on my work, which no one undersands. It makes me feel better for a moment, because I can laugh at my pretensions. The day I stop laughing, though, I'll be in real trouble. Let's just hope I don't start trying to explain my work.