I think that creation is innate to the human condition. We want to represent our experience in art that will touch our souls.
Our souls are the part of us able to experience art as an emotional, spiritual experience that our bodies can’t. We don’t write and sing and draw because we’re writers, singers, and artists, we do these things because we’re people.
Of course, these experiences can become physical as well. There are moments where a page you read is able to make your stomach twist, or head spin. But that only happens when what you’ve experienced is something that you think is good.
There exists a sentiment in art discourse that continues to run its course: the idea that nothing is really objectively good or bad. Arguably, there’s a point there.
There’s a philosophical theory that nothing we perceive as individuals is absolutely true, but that way of thinking is circular. It goes nowhere meaningful outside of “Well, I guess so.” But I can refute that.
First, we can just accept the fact that taste is something some people have in abundance over others, especially when it comes to writing. Not every text published will stand the test of time, like many greats do.
However, that doesn’t mean that text is bad. It just means it didn’t fulfill the “criteria” of most canons. There is a good reason we have our handful of greats though. These texts are still assigned readings in education designed for students to understand what good art is. Timelessness and universal applicability aren’t must-haves for good literature and art, but they certainly help it along.
Something modern advice gets right about writing is: “Reading a lot helps you write better.” I agree, but the footnote there should always be “reading good things.”
There’s some space for reading bad writing, yes. It’s something we can point to and dissect and tell ourselves to not do. But then there’s too much room for slightly less bad things, because technically, you’re not writing like that other guy. Reading good things cuts down on that guessing though, and gives you specific examples and goals to build your taste upon and always strive toward.
Admittedly, there’s always a self-satisfying ego trip to take in reading bad writing. It’s a distinct, human part of us that’s tied to our creative sensibilities to look at a piece of art that fails and to revel in its failure. However, I will always get on my soapbox and tell people to squash that part of themselves. We can dislike something that fails at everything it sought out to do and also respect it. Someone may be bad at their art, but I assume that they love art like me and my peers.
Amending our taste gaps is hard, it’s not intuition for everyone to figure out what works and what doesn’t, especially when there isn’t one singular checklist that they can refer back to. Admittedly, this isn’t a question I can answer as a student. I will never put myself on the same level as any of my professors at anything in literature.
But if you give me a different form of art, like sketching the human figure’s gesture, I’d be heaps more confident. I’ve worked and studied to accrue a library of gesture artists whose work is “canonized” and I’m capable of telling you what makes their art good.
It’s been difficult to wrap my head around what makes good writing, because I can’t visualize it. But suspiciously, thinking about writing in a way similar to what I think of sketching makes it a less intimidating endeavor. Of course, I’m not so naive to conflate the two completely. The core purpose of a gesture drawing and a piece of writing are different. You’re meant to look at a gesture drawing, and read text. But the fact remains: I am able to differentiate a good gesture drawing from a bad one. The good one has achieved what the artist set out to do, capture the force and mass and line of action a human can assume.
The bad gesture drawing did not reach its goal, because it is stiff and lacks any volume or anatomical accuracy, let alone suggestion. The same is true with good and bad writing, or any art form beyond that.
