The more I read into Cultural Amnesia, the more thought-provoked I become. Although the book is written in the form of individual profiles, the chapters are less about the people themselves and more about the idea, or ideas, that they represent.
On the chapter about Georg Christoph Lichtenberg, James discussed the nature of bad writing. Generally, bad writing happens when people who read very little attempt to create complex sentences without understanding the meaning of their words. One example that James uses is this line from a made-for-tv film, "A fire is a Frankenstein when it's let out of its cage." First of all, the name "Frankenstein" refers to the creator of the monster, and not the monster himself. More importantly though, why would a fire be compared to Frankenstein's monster in the first place? The writer was attempting to make a sophisticated cultural reference, but instead, he created an incomprehensible and factually incorrect line of dialogue.
As a possible young writer myself, I try to take note of these things, in order to avoid them for myself. The message I get is that trying to hard to sound intelligent is bad. On the other hand, without practicing the use of sophisticated vocabulary, how am I supposed to expand the capacity of my writing? Perhaps the key is to become acquainted with these words through the context of reading and the occasional dictionary definition, and to only use them when it seems fit.
I think a major pitfall in a lot of student writing is the idea that good writing comes from sophisticated language. I used to fall into the same trap myself. I remember last year in our writing workshop, I wrote a delightfully terrible sentence that went along the lines of "I lived upon a fortress of conjecture." When I wrote this sentence, I did not know what the word "conjecture" even meant. All I knew is that it was a fancy-sounding synonym of "assumption" and "speculation." Even now, I am not entirely sure what conjecture means, despite that I've looked up the definition and seen the word used in multiple contexts. Nevertheless, I've learned enough about the word to know that the metaphor "fortress of conjecture" makes very little sense, especially in the context I was using it for.
In the discussion of F. Scott Fitzgerald, James acknowledged that much of Fitzgerald's writing ability came from innate talent, as opposed to critical study and practice. These kinds of statements make me nervous. If a writer is born and not made, was I born with that special talent? I know that we always talk about how hard work is more important than talent, but it is still a question I wonder about. When I read
The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo, one moral the book taught was that beginner's luck is a sign from destiny that you're on your chosen path. This idea of following your destined path is what
The Alchemist is all about. Again though, these ideas make me worry. Did I have beginners luck with writing, or music, or anything else? Am I following my destined path, or am I deviating from it? Will I fulfill some sort of life purpose, or will distractions cause me to be only delightfully average?
To a certain extent, I am still looking for that thing that will give me beginner's luck. I am searching for that sign, but I doubt I will find it. When I play a new sport, I always think, "Maybe this will be the one sport I'm not terrible at!" When I try a new art form, I think, "Maybe this work will demonstrate my future potential and showcase the profundity of my ideas." One time after a mediocre basketball game in my gym class, I talked to my teacher about my frustration with being physically inept in sports. She told me, "Of course you're not going to be that great at first. Learning these skills take practice. You're walking into a company an expecting to be the CEO." Thank goodness I learned that from somebody! Her metaphor put it all into perspective for me. I have a tendency to expect to be CEO, because I've been rewarded for hardly working in the past. I hardly started studying for school until last year because I would get good grades on everything I did. Everyone told me I was talented, especially with music, even though I hardly practiced.
Perhaps there are two kinds of artists: the artist that builds from talent, and the artist that builds from work. Does the artist who begins with talent surpass the artist that builds from work if the talent artist works hard? Probably, and that frustrates me quite a bit, mostly because it brings me jealously. But how often does that talent artist work hard? Probably not often, as I can see displayed in my own life. At least there's a comfort in that.
How many people are born with talent? Is talent specific to a certain discipline or does it encompass a whole individual? Maybe it can be both. Some talented people can write an aria and draw the Titanic. Others are more rigid in their capabilities. I would like to think I fall into the category of talented individual, but that assumption could be a self-gratifying false statement. Is everyone talented in their own way, or is there a ranking of human potential? Who can judge?
My fear is investing time into an activity that I may never become great at due to a lack of innate ability. If I ever discover my efforts to be futile at improving myself beyond a certain level, I would be filled with such anger, frustration, and self-hatred. I try to recognize the probability of being able to reach a high skill level in an activity before I attempt it, but I realize that predicting such circumstances is impossible.
I think the only thing I can do is practice what I like, and hope that I'll be good at it. That's what I hope to do with writing, musical performance, learning languages, and the other activities that interest me. Maybe I won't amount to much of anything, but I'll never know unless I give it my best shot.
