Liza Libes has recently written about how, in her experience at least, writers and publishers tend to be some of the most unhelpful and self-centered people out there. These folks often abide by the rules of a “zero sum game,” where everyone who isn’t a winner is a sure-fire loser, and, if you win, that means I failed.
Libes’ essay reminded me of C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters, which is told from the perspective of a senior demon giving guidance to a novice, young Wormwood, on tempting human beings. The “zero-sum game” is Hell’s “unified approach to relationships” (meaning, Hell’s residents don’t have relationships at all). Two people can never share a good without one of them suffering. The way of Heaven, on the contrary, is to rejoice in the good of others and to realize that the success of one doesn’t equal the denigration of another. Screwtape notes that God doesn’t want us to care a whole lot about who wrote the amazing novel, or sculpted the beautiful cathedral, but to celebrate work well done. We should be able to laud someone else’s accomplishment simply because it’s good work. In such a world, we wouldn’t be a bunch of competing egos, but a collective people, each unique and interesting in his or her own way, all working toward the same thing: Goodness, truth, and beauty, pointing upwards to the Divine. The end result is something of a symphony, a tapestry, a Church.
I’ve learned from Screwtape’s sniveling complaints about the saints, and benefited greatly from Glittering Vices, a spiritual formation book that dives into the vice of envy, but only recently have I forced myself to realize that the green-eyed monster is not a far-off specter in my own life. It is an uncomfortably close and grubby roommate, clamoring in the next room, never leaving me alone.
I can relate the vice of envy most closely with my own writing, because that’s my profession, and I’ve longed to be a professional novelist since I was in elementary school. I was probably the only kid in my rural Oklahoma school who was interested in writing stories. Obviously, when you grow up in that kind of context, you think you’re one of the few people in the world with a knack for the written word. As millions of other starry-eyed students can attest, that feeling of uniqueness quickly fades upon entering the college campus. For me, it evaporated completely once I discovered the broad internet network of fabulous writers on Twitter, and eventually, Substack—the new haven for literature and emerging writers. I went from being the only writer in town to a minor blip in a gleaming spread of literary stars.
Surrounded by so much talent, I unfortunately became less interested in spinning a good story and more concerned with literary style. I’d wanted my words to sound good. The paragraphs needed to exude cleverness and creativity at every turn. If it wasn’t competing with David Foster Wallace, Marilynne Robinson, and Cormac McCarthy, then it wasn’t worth snuff. (This, of course, is an exaggeration. I never thought I was nearly as good as these great American writers, but the pressure to “sound good” eventually made it seem like every successful woman and man of letters was peering over my unproductive shoulder.)
For many years, my concern with style felt like the natural growing pains of a young writer in his twenties trying to find his voice. I wrote hundreds of essays and short stories, published two short novels and a story collection, got my MFA, and now teach writing at the college level. And yet with every stage of “success,” this gnawing sense that I had accomplished absolutely nothing continued to pester.
Finally, I realized that my interest in style, while certainly a form of growing pains, was ultimately comparative. I wanted to sound “as stylish as.” It was writing as competition. How could I show myself as unique? How could I show everybody that I know what the heck I’m talking about?
If you’re a reader, you’re reading something because it’s interesting and valuable to you. If you read an article that’s been shaped solely to reflect glowingly on the writer, chances are you’ll be turned off by it.
While I care about writing good and beautiful sentences, style should ultimately be about clarifying and enhancing your message/story on behalf of the person who’s reading it. Writing is also rewarding for its own sake, even when there’s no one there to read it. It should not be an exercise in revealing how awesome and smart the writer is. Unfortunately, a lot of writing is taught this way. Teachers tell students that the purpose of a writing assignment is to prove that they have learned something. That makes writing a way of showing off one’s knowledge or expertise instead of a way of offering value to a readership, or as a way to genuinely have fun with words and makesense of the world around you. Interested readers, though, don’t care about how smart you are. Readers care about incorporating value, whether informational, political, entertainment/literary, into their own lives. The writer is like a chef who depends on a bustling staff to prepare a great meal behind closed doors, and who finally presents the dish to the diner waiting expectantly at the table. But even if the writer composes without an audience, even if the chef cooks for one, she can trust that the process and the powers of attention it requires is shaping her own soul for good.
I’m writing this as a confession of my own struggle with envy, and as a call upon myself to start looking outward in 2025. I want to celebrate goodness wherever it can be found—whether in nature, music, or in the writings of my colleagues in arms. It feels sort of vulnerable sharing this. I don’t like the way I’ve winced at the success of other writers, or how I’ve gotten caught up with notions of “success” while forgetting my love of the craft itself. But I’m sure I’m not alone in this struggle. Envy is the way of the fallen world. Envy caused Satan, God’s brightest angel, to begrudge his station in the universe. The Bolsheviks resented and envied the aristocracy only to replace it with something far worse. Cain envied Abel, nations envy nations, people envy people.
Ultimately, I wonder if envy stems from a failure to recognize one’s personal worth. For a long time, my worth was largely tied up in my performance as a writer (among other things), and so was always contingent, susceptible to change. I’d like to change that, for my own sanity and for the health of my relationships. We need to base our worth and dignity on something much more solid and unchanging: the love of God and the love of each other.
Toni Morrison, one of the great American novelists of the last century, was once asked why she was a great writer. Donald Miller recounts her response in his book Searching for God Knows What: “I am a great writer because when I was a little girl and walked into a room where my father was sitting, his eyes would light up. That is why I am a great writer. That is why. There isn’t any other reason” (p. 128).
I love this. Morrison doesn’t have any false modesty here. She openly admits her greatness. But she locates the source of it in the validation she got from her father. Unconditional love created a foundation that allowed her to create freely, deeply, and beautifully. Rooted in love, free to create. That’s the goal. I pray we can all root ourselves deeply in love, freeing ourselves to live and write and act for the good of others.
Image Via: Island in the Net
