Artist Statement
I have been musing for a couple of weeks about what to post for the New Year. I had a few graphical ideas in mind, but nothing was coming together. Then today, I listened to Writing Excuses. This was fortuitous, as they introduced me to the concept of the Artist Statement, or more specifically, to its use by writers. I’ve read a lot of visual artist statements, since I’ve attended a lot of museum and gallery shows. But I had not considered it myself, although apparently it can be a requirement for some grants and MFA programs. It sounded to me like a task appropriate for the New Year. I personally love the symbolism of the New Year. It speaks to me of fresh starts, anticipation, and new chances. So, here is my initial stab at my Artist Statement. I consider it a living document, that I fully expect to change as I, and my writing, change.
I have always turned to fiction for escape. This was clarified in my own mind when my mother died. I had gotten into the habit of listening to podcasts before sleeping. When she died, I found that I could not face news or politics, philosophy or history, or even writing chat. I could only listen to stories. I listened to story after story, every night, for the weeks I was at her house, and even after I returned home. But, escape doesn’t have to be from a bad situation. It can simply be from our normal. Fiction gives us a chance to marvel at the adventures of people who take more risks than we do, or really, than we would ever want to. It allows us to see into cultures we will likely never experience, not even if we visit as tourists. It can open our eyes to different ways of life, and ways of being. And we’re not done with the shades of escape yet. It can be escape from solitude, whether external or purely internal. Don’t we all sometimes feel that nobody else thinks as we do. That we’re, in some way, a freak? Weird? Crazy? And then we discover our own thoughts, our own behaviors, in a character, and we understand that we are not, after all, alone. Because if somebody could write that character so convincingly, that person understands us, at least a little bit.
So, this is why I write. Because life is hard. Yes, it’s unarguably much, much harder for some than for others. But even the most privileged among us, assuming some basic level of human empathy, still cope with loss, with death, with loneliness, with pain. I have found that fiction has a power that non-fiction, compelling though it can be, does not share – the power to take me out of myself, for just a little while. To move me, uplift me, terrify me. Because it doesn’t have to be all happy endings to work, at least, for me. I am sure, during those weeks and months following my mother’s death, that I read and listened to horror, because I love horror. I love dark fantasy and old myths and lore, and gritty detective stories. Why these things should offer me relief, I must confess, I have not delved deeply into. There is probably a psychological effect that can be studied and, to some degree, measured. Maybe it has to do with catharsis. But I prefer to let it reside in the realm of magic. Literature is, for me, magical. My goal is for my stories to let the reader’s grief, their loneliness, or even just their normal, fade into the background, even if just for an hour, or half that. To give them that feeling of being transported outside themselves, and by so doing, to leave them better able to cope, when they return.