Gary Barwin | Issue 3

Feeling Like Schrodinger's Cat: On Writers' Self Love and Hate

Mar 15, 2021

Guest Post

Gary Barwin reflects on writers’ self love and hate for Send My Love to Anyone.

For most of this I talk about something that isn’t my favourite subject: me. I hope, though, that it's clear that what I'm talking about applies to most writers, perhaps in different ways, and we all have to manage feelings around both "success" and "failure" as writers and as people. And I hope also, as Whitman said, “All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,/ Else it were time lost listening to me.” To be honest, it’s not that what I’m saying here is new, but it's something that I think isn’t spoken about enough, especially among writers. And ok, maybe I am my favourite subject and just don’t realize it. I mean, let’s take a moment to think about my hair. Wow. Good. Now here goes:

I’m a goddamn genius! Love me! I just got the cover design and blurby words for my new novel. It’s a really beautiful cover and the words are really fantastic. They make the book sound amazing. And they said some tremendously complementary things about me and my work.

This should be good, right? Of course it is. I mean, it’s good for the book and for attracting unsuspecting readers. And I’m flattered and all. However, it makes me think about that oh so difficult of issues. What to do about positive feedback? It can make you uncomfortable. (Negative feedback is another thing — thanks, Dad! — but maybe what I say here about its opposite also applies.)

There is of course imposter syndrome. That couldn’t really be me! What if everyone finds out that I’m a fake? I can’t live up to those words. And for me, the book is done, so it’s going to have to go out into the world without me. Nothing I can do will change the novel at this point. Unless, you know, I try to arm-wrestle Putin, accidentally discover a new planet or become a Kardashian. The novel is typeset and ready to go. And it’s too late to fix that factual error someone found. But now that I’m working on a new novel, I feel haunted by the last ones. Can I make them as good? (They’re disappointments to me, of course — I wanted them to be so much better — but also, can I make this novel as good as the last ones? It should be just like the last ones, except of course, totally different.) This is the quantum state, the Schrödinger's Cat of Self Regard that writers often live with. We're great while at the same time we're awful. Naturally, sometimes we're Mx In-between.

Can I make this new book live up to that hyperbolic praise on my last book? It actually says, “a novel of sheer genius.” Holy cow! Really. What? And I didn’t even write that. And my mom didn’t either. But of course it’s just advertising bumpf. Sure, the editor thinks the book is good, but what does saying this kind of stuff really mean? Really, it is just the relationship between a reader and a book which determines how the book works. And that can be neither quantified, predicted, or assumed. That’s one of the things that’s great about writing. It’s always its own thing. And the reader makes it their own thing. Or not.

But really, it isn’t about the hoopla around the reception of the book, or how “great” I am, or how terrible. I hope just to write. To just make the book I’m writing be the best it can be. For the book. Sure, for my own satisfaction as a writer, also. I mean, I do take pride in my craft. If I were a wall builder, I’d want to make a good wall. But there’s something about writing that is different than walls. Or shoes. Or bread. (Oh bread, my yeasty dear, you ‘n’ me are made for each other...) But there’s the matter of “wisdom” or “greatness” or “super whizbang artiness that transcends mere artisan/craftspersonness,” isn’t there? What does that mean though, for a writer? I mean, I do try to go for it. To try to put everything into what I’m writing. Not to be pretentious and gloop up the work with trying to be deep, but to really “bring it” when I sit down to write. Whatever that looks like at the time. Whatever that looks like for me. So, I do try to go “deep,” but not to be “deep” for the sake of it, or performatively so. I try to hear right inside me, to think and feel deeply about whatever it is I’m working on. Language, story, history, idea, surprise, image. And when I’m making a terrible joke, to really make it terrible to the best of my ability. And when I’m writing a character, to really make the portrayal “sing” whatever that looks like for the particular work.

I remember when my last novel received a really surprising amount of attention, and particularly after the fancy-shmancy Scotiabank Giller Prize shortlist, I was quite depressed. Why? I guess I let it get to me. It was strange. Part of me always wanted that kind of approval and affirmation. It was all very glamorous and glitzy. But when I got it, I didn’t like it. It seemed like it was saying that my worth as a person had to do with this success. And of course, it doesn’t. Sure, this was a tremendously lovely recognition of something I'd worked hard on, and for my writing career in general, but it didn’t — it shouldn’t — mean anything about me as a person. As a son, husband, father, sibling, friend, etc. As a human. But to be honest, it took me aback. If I acknowledged this award, it felt like I was saying that actually it did matter whether I achieved some of this recognition as a writer, it mattered as to whether I had worth as a person.

It took a while to sort this out. Why did I feel badly? I didn’t want the recognition if it meant that I’d really wanted it. Needed it. It took a bit for me to understand that in fact, while I was pleased that my writing was recognized, something I’d worked hard on, it ultimately had nothing to do — or at least, not much, to do — with my sense of self, my worth, my confidence. At least, not at my core.

Did the fact that I wrote strange books for 30 years before this that didn’t get this mainstream recognition mean anything about me as a person? Nope. Did this mainstream recognition? Nope. It was good for the career aspect of my writing — book sales, some money, opportunities to write and participate in things, and it got me some work. But other than that, my life is about me as a person. And I like writing — even when I hate it — and I hope and try to keep getting better. And to have the opportunity to keep writing and to keep being able to share that writing in whatever form that takes.

Sometimes I worry when people speak to me about becoming “a published writer,” or speak about how a book will change their lives. Sure, it will AS A WRITER — maybe — but not as a human. We will still have the gaping holes of need inside us we always had, even if we have a #1 International Best Seller, six Nobel Prizes and a prize-winning cabbage. Or we’ll still be filled with gladness and light if we don’t. The only difference is, we’ll have a publication, or a book. And really that’s a great thing. We get to write. And we get to be profoundly ourselves and work through all of what that means. But neither is dependent on the other. It gives us freedom and possibility always. And we get to decide what matters to us, not what is important to the market, or the prizes or anything else.

It's true that most of us have times when we get overwhelmed with insecurity, envy, doubt — the usual three sneaky codependent muses. And in some people, it leads not just to despair, despondency and depression which are certainly bad enough, but to problematic behaviour, taking their feelings out on others, their poor behaviour fueled by their own issues. What to do with the feelings? I mean beside becoming a radiant and self-actualized wonderperson. I’ve tried that. Apparently it takes a lot of work, therapy, and Gorilla glue. For me, I try to take the energy from feeling badly and be supportive of other writers. Even if I haven’t battled my demons, at least I’ve done something good and helped someone. And of course, the poor feelings, the negative focus on myself is somewhat transmuted into something more positive. It also helps because it means I’ve stepped back and taken in a larger perspective than my own black hole of an ego. And another thing is to understand that these feelings exist for many writers. Paul Quarrington said that envy, and the bitterness that results, “is the writer’s black lung disease.” So I try to be kind to myself, think of that troubled writer self as a child within me that needs TLC (maybe THC sometimes, too) and nurturing. I’ll protect, tiny, worried, little Gary. Here, eat a cheesecake. Eat another. But really, I do try to take myself in stride and to channel the difficult energies into other things. Making art. Walking the dog. Being kind. Turns out that these things aren’t that hard to do, provide their own satisfactions and make me happy.

Of course, I’m talking about garden variety difficulties. Obviously sometimes things get way beyond that, and as unqualified as I to talk about what I’ve been talking about perhaps too glibly, I’m certainly not qualified to talk about the really heavy stuff. But I hear you.

In the end, writing is in many ways as much about dealing with yourself as the writing. If only to get out of the way. But also to work with yourself so that you can keep writing, navigate perceived success and failure, find renewable sources of creative energy and look after yourself despite or because of the challenges and rewards of your “career.”

Hey y'know, while you're here, feel free to tell me I'm genius on the socials. Also, that my hair looks good today. Because, damn. It does! And my dog likes to hear he’s being walked by someone who can write good. Or has good hair.

Gary Barwin is a writer, composer, musician, and multidisciplinary artist and has published 25 books of fiction, poetry and numerous chapbooks. His latest books include For It is a Pleasure and a Surprise to Breathe: New and Selected Poems, ed. Alessandro Porco, Ampers&thropocene (visuals) and a new novel, Nothing the Same, Everything Haunted: The Ballad of Motl the Cowboy. His national bestselling novel Yiddish for Pirates won the Stephen Leacock Medal for Humour and the Canadian Jewish Literary Award and was also a finalist for both the Governor General’s Award for Fiction and the Scotiabank Giller Prize. His latest album is Blind Willie Johnson’s Consonants and the Tree Frogs of Jamaica. A PhD in music composition, his writing, music, media works and visuals have been presented and broadcast internationally He lives in Hamilton, Ontario and at garybarwin.com