Lit: eLITism and the Community-Conscious Writer, by Kristen Miller

The NYT Book Review printed a very amusing essay which addressed the steadily increasing ranks of those people who call themselves “writers”.  Essayist Paul Greenburg facetiously proposes a “writer bailout” program, in which the government pays people to stop being writers, thus weeding out the posers and making room for serious and talented writers to succeed at their craft.

Greenburg is joking (sort of), but the fears at the root of his argument are shared by writers everywhere, famous and ignominious, even (dig deep, now) by you and I.  Greenburg quotes Ann Beattie, who said, “There are too many of us, and M.F.A. programs graduate more every year, causing publishers to suffer snow-blindness, which has resulted in everyone getting lost .”  Who among us hasn’t felt that little spasm of panic when we realize just how many other creative-writing majors are out there?  Who else is familiar with that sense of urgency to write it before someone else does?  Who hasn’t cherished an Original Idea for years only to find it (phrased more nicely) in the pages of Fitzgerald, or worse yet, a close colleague?  Who wouldn’t want to buy off a contemporary or two and clear a little more space for oneself in the stacks?

But whatever our feelings on the subject, we writers have to recognize that this attitude is destructive, both to our chosen discipline and to ourselves.  Where else in society does a field benefit by decreasing its number of skilled workers?  This logic doesn’t carry over  into any other area in which people are passionate about their work.  If only we had fewer people volunteering in our charity organizations, fewer teachers.  If only there was a more limited number of qualified physicians to choose from.

The idea that the presence of more writers dilutes and corrupts the quality of the universal store of writing is not only a self-destructive position, but an embarrassingly arrogant one.  Funny, when we fantasize about sorting the good from bad, reducing the surplus of writers, we always find ourselves in the “salvage” bin.

Isn’t the point of having colleagues to collaborate with them?  What causes such fierce competition -cannibalization- among the writing community?  It doesn’t happen with bake-smiths or coffee-smiths, tech-smiths or doc-smiths.  Why are word-smiths so afraid of their own kind?

Here’s my theory: from our first day of kindergarten and throughout our tender years, we were caned with the rod of self-esteem, as seemingly painless and universal as the Birthday Paddle (Birthday Paddle, anyone?)  After morning milk, before recess, during nap-time we were told what?  “You are a one-of-a kind, special and unique snowflake.  There is no one quite like you.”

Instead of teaching us to see ourselves as integral and important components of our communities, our well-meaning teachers, parents and after-school television puppets taught us we were child-wonders.  We were stars, prodigies and islands rolled into one and placed upon our very own Olympic platform with a shiny, gold trophy reading “Best All-Around”.

But before long (I think about seventh or eighth grade) reality began to creep in.  As our social sphere widened, we realized that there were people quite like us.  A lot of people.  We rebelled against that reality and fought to retain our specialness: inking things on our arms or spelling our names on our backpacks in safety-pins, finding “our thing” and striving to be the best at it.  Then we noticed that our classmates had the same inkings, the same safety-pins.  There was always someone better at “our thing” than us.  We were not, after all, a special and unique snowflake.

I think the cannibalization of the writing community is a repercussion of that moment that we realized our thoughts and words were not, and could not be possibly, original.  What’s the one way to be the most special?  Off the competition!  But once again, we are focusing our attention on the wrong thing.  After all, in writing, the trafficking of words and ideas, is originality really the only thing that counts?  What about truth, timeliness?  What about wit and the skillful turn of a phrase?  What about beauty that surfaces upon the page with such clear, refreshing suddenness?

Here’s the reality, writers: it’s all been done before.  Just Google your brilliant idea if you don’t believe me.  My sweet yet hip idea for a novel: 2,339 results (0.15 seconds).  The witty and clever title which I swear I thought of independently: “about” 162,000 results (0.24 seconds).  Originality in writing doesn’t exist.  But truth and beauty have yet to be exhausted.

In conclusion, quit picturing yourself writing all alone on a desert island, the most special and original person around.  Start looking at yourself and your work as a vital, living, breathing part of a worldwide community of writers.  Don’t be afraid to read your contemporaries.  This isn’t a competition, it’s a mosaic.  Start intentionally finding value in your colleagues and their work, and you’ll be pleasantly surprised when they do the same for you.

Shameless plug: ‘Nuff said.  Poetry and Fiction on the Sojourn discussion board.