Coming out of the ‘artist closet’

Last night we saw Amy Tan speak at the Bookworm. She’s a Chinese-American author most famous for ‘The Joy Luck Club’ and somewhat of an ABC idol. My friend said she was going to ask Amy to sign her tits. I said that I’d try to ‘fist bump’ her and that during the talk we’d all cry about our abusive tiger mothers and all the related piano-practicing trauma.

Well none of that stuff actually happened, but it was a great talk and we did get some books signed and a photo. I identified with her less as a Chinese-American and more as an ‘identity politics’ writer. She talked about her process, and doing immersive research for her latest novel (such as spending three weeks in an impoverished region of Guizhou), which excited me. It occurred to me, as it has more frequently of late, that this is what I really want to do. Be a writer.

There’s an embarrassment in saying that, and I think it stems from the anti-intellectualism of cultures like the United States and Australia (particularly the latter). Our response to anyone who wants to dedicate themselves to their art: who do you think you are? You so arrogantly believe you’re talented? Want to avoid civil responsibilities and get a ‘real job’, as the rest of us have? Perhaps it’s also linked to our out-of-control celebrity culture. We think someone wants to be an artist, and we confuse them with wanting to be famous.

Earlier this month I was in Melbourne to see an actor friend of mine in the final year performance at the end of an exhausting but exhilarating three years at drama school. Before drama school she was, believe it or not, a medical student. And I had witnessed the incredible struggle she went through, all throughout her medical degree, torn between her desire for a ‘stable life’ and what she felt like was her ‘true self’ as an artist.

At the time, I don’t think I truly appreciated the courage it took for her to finally make the leap and quit her medical degree to become a full-time acting student (at, I should say, one of the top drama schools in the country). It’s only now, when I consider taking up the life of a writer: the unstructured lifestyle where one has more time than money, the insecurity, the unknowing of what the future holds, that my knees buckle and I return to the office and life as a hired blogging-gun. 

And for me the gap is not so large to leap. Writing is one of the core duties at my current position. But I want to do the kind of writing that requires me to pour in a lot of heart and sweat. The kind of writing in which I am developing my craft, pushing personal boundaries, exploring new lands and leaving on the page something more lasting and impressionable than a day’s internet reading. Writer as artist, rather than writer as hack journalist.

For my friend, however, the gap was a chasm and in that, she is a true inspiration to me. In leaving her medical degree she departed the world of annual salaries, health insurance, holiday pay and promotions. Not to mention the conservative prestige of being a doctor. And instead chosen a life with incredibly huge risks, all in the name of art. It was an act that was not selfish, but rather selfless. And she has no fallback plan or safety net. It is art, or nothing.