On being the connector
Ego death, uniting creative community, & holding space for all of us
Hello Folks,
A few days ago, on the phone with my mother, I said something along the lines of how I am beginning to think my new role as an artist is not, in fact, to be the one making great work, but to be the one bringing together all the people who are making great work, to which she replied: you’re the connector. She then went on to say that it was as important of a role as the artist— that no great musician would exist without a great producer, that no actor would win awards without a director behind them. For a writer, I suppose the same is true for agents and publishers and publicists and all the people who get the work out there. And I thought, yes. I am.
The connector is not a role I ever saw for myself. I grew up an only child in a single-parent household, so you can imagine that I was imbued with a sense of both singularity and speciality that made me feel as though there was no one like me in the world, and that difference was what marked me for great things. I was a Type A overachiever, the kind of kid who began writing novels in elementary school and never really stopped. I took more classes than I was meant to, I built websites and launched magazines, I won awards and got angry at the awards I didn’t win that I was sure I was supposed to. Most of this was just privilege and naivety— this sense that of all the people in the world, I was meant to be the one who succeeds. I knew a career in the arts would be difficult, but I was sure that it wouldn’t be for me. That not everyone is meant to succeed, but that I was— and anyone who didn’t see that, or who tried to warn me, or who sought to see me grow more practical was just out to squash my dreams and push me into “normalcy”, a concept which sounded worse than death to fifteen-year-old me, who had decided that the things that made me different were also the things that made me special, and interesting. Those things, of course, were largely rooted in pain, clouded by my own suffering and loneliness, and they were unsustainable. I was feeding into every narrative I had ever seen of artistry, all of which centered difference and isolation and sadness. I could have cared less about community; I just wanted to be a bestseller.
Like most people, I got older. I grew up. And I realized that twenty, thirty years down the line, it wouldn’t matter what I had written or where I published it, not if I was still sitting alone, waiting for someone, anyone, in the world to see me. When I made the decision to start trying to get better, to rewrite the stories I had told myself and build a life that valued connection and well-being and happiness and healing, I was sure I would lose that success. I didn’t write for a long time, and when I did, I could only write of my own life, processing it, trying to find some common thread. It was five years before I returned to fiction, and when I did, it felt like learning all over again, trying to write something that felt honest rather than something I felt would achieve commercial success. I had to tell myself I didn’t care if it ever got published, and I still do; much of the feedback I’ve received on the novel I’ve been querying has been that there just might not be an audience for it. I’m teaching myself how to be okay with that— to be satisfied with knowing I wrote the book I needed ten years ago, and even if no one ever reads it except myself, that’s enough. Even if I never publish anything again, that’s enough. If I never manage to write another word and just find myself here telling the same story over and over again until I can finally let it go, it’s enough. I am learning to release my ego; I am learning to be the connector.
When we launched the podcast a few months back, I realized the ways in which this belief that I am special somehow was going to ruin my art. When I would ask questions to our guests, I would imagine myself answering them on the other side. Any journal I’ve ever kept or note I’ve ever written has been filtered through the lens of someone else finding it years down the line. Someone else writing a biography on my life, making a film, writing a profile. It boils down to something simple, and a common problem for many of us artists: I have only ever been able to see myself through the eyes of others. I am disembodied flesh, filtering my entire life through what it must look like to an outside lens. I am only just beginning to figure out who I am, what I want. It’s terrifying. It’s freeing.
Ocean Vuong writes that queerness saved his life by forcing him to think of alternative routes for life. Similar thoughts have been shared on recovery and sobriety, in that both force you to find ways to live your life beyond what has been presented to you, and to find new possibilities within that. I came out slowly, over the course of years, revealing parts of myself to people I met until I knew I couldn’t define myself any other way. I remember having a panic attack in the bathroom before a memoir workshop where I first wrote about love, and knowing that whatever ways I had been perceived would change in that moment. Afterwards I went and sprinted on the treadmill until I cried. I wanted release, a death of something. Whether it was fear or shame or ego I wasn’t sure. It still feels so strange to look back on that person, and to see how far she has come. I know she must still live within me, but it feels unimaginable to me now, to be that afraid. I like to think I will feel this way about every version of myself I am for the rest of my life.
For artists growing up in rural and suburban spaces, we are presented with only one option for survival, and for the success of our art: to get out. To go to the big city, where arts and culture thrive, and to be seen by the people there, the ones who hold the power to make the decisions about what is good art. If you decide not to do this, it is nearly impossible to feel as though you are not sacrificing your chance for success— that you are blowing your one shot for the world to know who you are. When I moved out of New York City, I knew I would survive my life. I also feared, deeply, that that survival hinged on giving up my artistic practice, or at least, the knowledge that success would come with it. I was wrong, obviously; coming back has been the best thing for my art that I could do. But it also required writing a completely new story of what it would look like to be an artist. It required releasing my ego around which publications mattered, which publishers were worthy, which towns were cool enough to live in. It required turning inward and paying close attention to the people and places around me.
Susan Sontag writes that as humans we should “Do stuff. Be clenched, curious. Not waiting for inspiration's shove or society's kiss on your forehead. Pay attention. It's all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager. Stay eager.”
When I started paying attention, I realized that maybe I am not meant to be the center voice— and that perhaps I do not want to be. Hasn’t my story been told before, in so many different ways? Aren’t I tired of trying to tell it differently? Yes, I am, and yes, it has. What if I could think of myself as a vessel of knowledge, at the center but not the center itself, uniting all the people around me whose voices I do think are worthy of your time? What if I could think of myself as the connector?
These days I spend most of my time seeking out very cool artists in very cool places across the South, and bringing them into conversation with one another. I have loved this process. I have loved introducing friends to new friends and finding new places and sharing those places and cultivating community in this way. It feels the most true to my artistic practice of anything I’ve ever done. It also requires releasing every narrative of self-perception I have ever held, and re-evaluating all the things I know about being an artist.
We tend to think of artistry as a singular pursuit, or at least artistic stardom. How many film biopics have focused on the lead singer and said nothing of the rest of the band? Or, if they do, how many zero in on the tension of stardom, the ongoing feud between the lead and the guitarist, the main actor and the supporting star, the vocalist and the background singer? I, for one, am tired of centering artistic success on this idea that you have to be at the forefront, that you have to be the face of it. I’m interested in community success and community practice and what art can look like if we find ways to collaborate together instead of dividing ourselves up. That’s the role I want to play. When you ask me what my dream life looks like now, it’s owning land somewhere beautiful where artists can come and stay for free— holding space for artistry to thrive and connection to be built. Perhaps I write there, too. Perhaps I don’t. I’ll be fine either way, I think.
FIVE THINGS THAT BROUGHT ME JOY THIS WEEK
I finally visited the Elsewhere Museum in Greensboro this past weekend for their Nightmare on S. Elm Street Halloween party, and it’s safe to say I’m obsessed with this place. What a cool concept: nothing can enter or exit the building, and both artist residents and the general public are invited to touch, change, or make anything in the space they would like. Rooms with couches made of ribbons! Entire racks of vintage clothing to play dress up with! The following sign, which more or less sums up how I feel about all of this:
I’ve been re-reading Leslie Jamison’s The Recovering the last few weeks, working slowly through it. This book was really fundamental to me in re-evaluating my life, and it’s been interesting to read back through it years later. It’s also made me really happy to see how my life looks now.
The song Rushmore by Ash Tuesday. So good. SO GOOD!
Also, this song by The Knife, which my friend put on while we were driving home the other night under the full moon, through the backroads, with all the windows down. Something like a spiritual experience, or as close as we can get to one on earth.
I also got to see Lucy Dacus live for the second time again last week, and I maintain she’s still one of the best performers I’ve ever seen. I’ve never experience a show go by that fast. And I’m still convinced I once transcended to the astral plane while listening to Triple Dog Dare.
The role of connector, I loved this conversation!