The morning clouds drifted around the San Gabriel mountains as the sun struggled to peek through. A mediocre Americano rested on the table between Phillip and I. But, that doesn’t matter, because the conversation we’re having makes up for the lack in sipping pleasure. It’s not like the taste actually matters; it is the ritual, the practice, the vibe.
We were discussing a standout scene in the wonderful film “La La Land”, which we’d watched the night before. Mia (Emma Stone), weaves her way through a bumpin pool party where her friend catches her attention, introducing her to an acquaintance.
Friend: “Carlos is a writer.”
Carlos: “Yeah, see, I have a knack for world building. I' gotta lotta heat right now. Sortof a lot of buzz. A lotta people talking about me, which is exciting. You know, you work so hard and all that validation is, its crazy…”
Mia, interrupting, smiling: “I’m gonna grab a drink.”
Phillip is not one to speak during a film, but this scene elicited a laughing exclamation “Gosh I hate this guy!” Don’t we all.
And that about sums up my post. It is just a wonderful scene that so perfectly captures the exhausting, self-peddling, pandering, aggrandizing marathon of trying to promote your own creative content. See, here I am, writing away, swimming through a pool of irony as I think about the banality of writing for a dwindling audience. Just like the guy in the film (see, can’t even remember his name) trying to chalk up his brand to Mia, there is no buzz around my name. It’s basically winter around here and heat is a distant fantasy, the thought of which makes the chill chillier.
The dramatic irony we get to sink our teeth into is that Mia is, herself, a nobody. This guy, Carlos or whatever, is so wound around this mythical pursuit of buzz that he will buzz his name to anybody, nobody, without even knowing it.
This is just a synecdoche for the whole movie, of course. It is a simulacra for exactly the life it is portraying. Actors and artists trying to make it big in Hollywood, finding love, and discovering that you can’t have your cake and eat it to. You can’t fall madly in love and pursue your dreams. The Hollywood gods won’t allow it.
The scene is like a hologram of the whole, and like a mocking homage to every writer out there, especially in the age of social media hustle. “We see you” the movie writer is saying. “We see you, because you’re us. We peddle our writing to publishers and producers. We’ve looked like fools here and there. Probably will again.”
This isn’t what Phillip and I talked about, though. Instead, we took the scene as an inspo piece on identity. Phillip said.
I’m done saying, “I’m a writer.”
He fleshed out the thought by exploring how the urge to place your identity in your creativity leads to an empty echo chamber. If you are a writer, then the natural follow on is that your identity ebbs and flows in as much as you actually write, or publish, or get read. There will always be bench marks and caveats and mountains that diminish your identity, in as much as your identity is tied to performance.
An actor who acts and becomes an actor is living a diminished secondary mode of existence. A writer who writes just to be a writer withers as a human being, because they’re trying to stuff their identity into a profession, a hobby, an artform. Did I say “they’re”? I mean me.
It’s me trying to stuff some portion of my identity into writing. If only I could get noticed, get a little heat around my name, a little buzz, then I’d feel like I’m a writer. That’s why Phillip and I so loved and hated that scene. We know it’s us in that scene, trying to lock in a contract, a deal, a publishing gig, a book signing, whatever. Furthermore, it’s the worst. We know that the game of hustling and promoting is draining (not that I have a ton of experience, yet, but I’m getting the idea), and somehow fails to accurately represent our identities or our work.
If I’m not a writer, than what am I? I said to Phillip something like,
We are conscious, experiential beings first. Art is a secondary mode of being, a way of metaphorizing what our experiences are.
I think I’m going to stand by that for the foreseeable future. What I am, what you are, is a being experiencing consciousness, moment by moment. If you lose your identity in your work, hobby, art, or role in life, then your ability to consciously experience being will fade. I can feel the pull to trade in my identity as an experiential conscious being for the sake of a tin can dream. I want to be a writer. But I can’t be a writer, or at least I’m realizing I don’t want to be. Carlos helps me see that.
Even the small amount of self-promotion involved in posting to Substack and social media is exhausting. It makes me want to curl up into a ball and play video games or watch porn. It’s a good sign that there is a tug-of-war over my identity in the process. This friction is a feature of the system, I bet, and not a bug.
I’ve committed myself to writing two posts a month for a year. Why? Unfortunately, part of that motivation was the lure of being a writer. Or, should I say fortunately? The discipline of writing is having it’s necessary and good effect, I suppose. Trimming the pure from impure, the good from the bad. I want to write, and writing takes practice, so that’s what I’m doing. What I am is experiencing everything, including what I’m doing, not doing, wanting to do, and eventually doing.
For those of you following along while I practice, I value your support and encouragement. Really. In the long run, I have several books I want to get back to writing on. Perhaps I’ll be able to manage my year long Substack spree in conjunction with writing on my first novel. Who knows.
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