Confessions of a Former Ignorant Reader of Literary Works

In spite of the fact that I have never read Eat Pray Love, I would have preferred to get a hundred papercuts to the face when I watched the movie in cinemas. In spite of the fact that we were snobbish, I was a member of a group of literary types who believed that we were cool because of our self—the one million copies sold. that we hadn't even read her book, we believed Gilbert was a wealthy and frivolous person who deserved to be mocked and ridiculed by the media. Because she did not write what we formerly thought to be the major novels, the essential books, we eviscerated a stranger who had the courage to wake up from her napping existence and see one complete book through to its conclusion.

But whatever it may imply.

When we are in our twenties and thirties, we all spend a significant amount of time striving to be perfect because we are so concerned about what other people will think of us. In our forties and fifties, we finally begin to feel liberated because we have made the decision that we do not care what other people think of us. This is the moment when we truly begin to be free. However, you won't be truly free until you reach your sixties and seventies, when you finally uncover this liberating truth: nobody was ever concerned about you anyhow. This realization will bring you ultimate freedom. –Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic

For most of my twenties and early thirties, I was judgmental, and I surrounded myself with other judgmental authors. It’s true, you are the company you keep. We fancied ourselves wiser than everyone else; we were obnoxious, self-indulgent, and unpleasant in all capitals. Art wasn’t art unless you were making something meaningful, something that would remain, even when the evaluation of that work was totally subjective.

Even if the works we admired were derided in their day but went on to mark the era in which they were released. Beckett’s Waiting for Godot was laughed off the Parisian stage, and yet it’s one of his most unforgettable pieces.

How could one anticipate which tales would endure? We were presumptuous to assume we could.

Much of the animosity against Gilbert was founded in our envy of her success and the fact that our strange little works didn’t reach as wide of an audience. We were privy solely to her accomplishment, not the lifetime battle that preceded it, because people don’t want the discomfort, boredom, aggravation, and sorrow—they seek the fairytale ending, the “after” shot. The one million copies sold.

People seek the hoopla and confetti of sudden success without recognizing that it’s a lie. We were also angry that our society was transitioning from laboring over type to reality television; everyone got attached to their gadgets, which turned into phantom limbs. We were no longer flesh; we were plastic, paper, and steel. Pay no regard; folks have been criticizing inferior culture since Shakespeare. Pay no attention to the fact that we literary people tinkered with our phones during book parties and readings.

In a 1978 interview with Rolling Stone, Susan Sontag fought against the illusory division between high and low culture. For her, there were no high/low, right/wrong books; rather, we needed to absorb the fullness of experience to produce meaningful work. Sontag stated,

“I really believe in history; that’s something people don’t believe in anymore. I have very few ideas, but this is absolutely one: that practically everything we conceive of as natural is historical and has origins—notably in the late-18th and early-19th centuries, the so-called Romantic revolutionary era. We’re still fundamentally dealing with expectations and sentiments created at that time.

So when I go to a Patti Smith performance, I enjoy, engage, appreciate, and am tuned in better because I’ve read Nietzsche.”

This isn’t to argue that Elizabeth Gilbert is lowbrow; this is more about us judgy-judgy-was-a-bear types that maintained a myopic worldview. We forget people that we respected developed their art not in a vacuum, but in observation of the world around them. Most of the authors we adored barely completed high school, much less attended boldfaced institutions and graduate programs that cost more than luxury mansions.

It took me a long time to shift, to recognize that every work is worthwhile regardless of the writer or genre. That, if a piece of art, whether it be literature, sculpture, or film, moves someone, alters the weight and form of their day, who cares about the substance of that work? Who cares if it’s not about the “big” things—huge being that which is completely subjective?

Even today I battle the knee-jerk temptation to critique people’s work. Old habits and such. But I remind myself that we need balance and difference. We need our reality to be complicated, odd, annoying, and exciting for it to be amazing.

I’m reminded of the Twilight Zone episode, “Mind Over Matter,” when a curmudgeonly guy, Archibald Beechcroft, uses his thoughts to rid the planet of humanity. And when he populates New York with photocopies of himself (since he can only fully accept fellow Archibald Beechcrofts), his vision that comes to pass startles him. A world filled with replicas is an annoying one, and in the end, he restores the reality to what it was—even if it upsets him.

It took me years to appreciate lowbrow without shame, and it took me even longer to discover that if someone puts their passion into their work, it doesn’t matter whether it’s a pink book jacket or a dark one—what counts is that someone saw a tale through. Because nobody truly finishes anything? It’s honorable to respect a fellow writer who’s able to write that book in little pockets of time throughout the day, and it’s cowardly to condemn them for the sort of work they create. If someone crafts a mass-market thriller and it offers a reader delight, who am I to take it away?

What right do I have to determine the value of someone else’s labor?

Now, I read thrillers, suspense, beach reads, literary fiction, historical fiction, and scientific non-fiction, and trust me when I tell you that ingesting the variety of material has made me a better and more sympathetic writer. There’s much to be taught when we jump out of our secure, constrained sandbox.

Once I read an article by Dr. Andrew Weil about why he loves to cook—the alchemy of imagination and creation:

“There is another reward of cooking that fascinates and motivates me: it is excellent training in practical magic. By that I mean that cooking provides you an opportunity to practice the mystical art of manifestation—bringing something from the mind into physical reality.”

It’s not about plating or recipes or contests—Weil just cares about producing something from nothing, and there’s dignity in that plain, physical reality.

Whether you would’ve asked me twenty years ago whether I would’ve written an article inspired by Elizabeth Gilbert, I would’ve considered you mad; nonetheless, Big Magic is a gem. I like it because it’s basic and honest. Most self-help books concentrate on a platform and utilize language that serves merely to isolate the writer from the reader, usually leaving me feeling hollow and sold to. With Gilbert, I felt as if she were in my house, whispering words of confidence in my ear. Take your job seriously, but please do not take yourself seriously.

While my book won’t cure cancer, maybe it’ll help someone feel less alone in the world.

And about that elusive success? No one actually appreciates outrageous fame and money, and if that’s your drive to make art, you really need to think about your life. Even if we’re not going to win big, it doesn’t mean we entirely pull ourselves out of the game. In Joan Didion’s book, Play It as It Lays, BZ folds. And even if the game is rigged and L.A. is a wasteland, Maria goes on playing.

Because of Kate, because why not?

In Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert presents her views, skills, and tales on how we might actually live our most creative lives. Fear? Have it come along for the ride but never let it take the wheel. Perfection? It doesn’t exist; rather, concentrate on being done. The tormented artist? Stop this insanity. Who wants to knowingly inflict agony on ourselves? Gilbert shows how one may be confident, motivated, and enthusiastic about their profession and producing ideas. And even though I’m in my late 40s and have written two novels with an agency and a conventional publisher, I still found her remarks motivating.

A yoga instructor once told me that the measure of an experienced practitioner is someone who doesn’t have an ego about returning to a fundamentals class. The adept yogi re-learns a downward-facing dog. An expert yogi understands the toughest posture isn’t handstand but savasana. We never stop learning, and sometimes it’s vital to return to the foundations, and I feel as if Gilbert conveys that via the prism of someone who tells tales.

“This is a world, not a womb. You can take for yourself in this world while looking after your creativity at the same time—just as people have done for ages.” — Elizabeth Gilbert

Up until five years ago, I cared what outsiders thought of me. I felt hurt when people disliked my writing or myself. I was devastated when former colleagues unfollowed me on social media and friends unsubscribed from my newsletter. And then it came to me that it required a lot of time and energy to shoulder other people’s views of me and my work.

People will always find an excuse to whip out their knife and do their excisions. They’ll always despise something about you or what you do for a multitude of reasons. Calling it jealousy would be basic and reductive since feedback is not necessarily tied to envy, but I recognize I’m human and I’m imperfect like everyone else. There are things about my personality that even I don’t like, so how can I even assume that I’m able to influence others' impressions of me since I’m admittedly a work in progress? Did Elizabeth Gilbert worry that people despised Eat Pray Love? No. She continued working.

I don’t care if people have preconceptions about me, detest me, or my work. I’m working on a new essay collection, and who knows whether it’ll sell, but I’m writing it anyhow. I write stuff here that people despise. I’m averse to cliques or communities—I prefer my wolf pack small and intimate, stocked with individuals I trust. I block anyone I want to without abandon. You don’t like it? I don’t care. I owe you nothing.

Here’s what I care about:

I care about bringing the greatest work I can out into the world. I spent almost two and a half years on my work, and I learned so much from the process, and it won’t be erased by the fact that a few people purchased it. What is important is that I produced something I liked; I saw a tale through. I care about being a dedicated friend to the people in my life—I hold myself responsible to them. And if I’m not being a nice person or friend, I depend on the people that I love to give me that criticism. I take that which is constructive to concentrate on becoming better since we’re continuously learning and developing, and I can’t waste my time on those who will never like me regardless of how hard I try.

All I can do is keep writing, keep learning, keep progressing, and see what happens. Shuffle the cards and play them as they lie.