How Deep?

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What’s the depth of your literary (or any) mastery? 

This question, of course, leads us on an introspective journey, more rhetorical than realistic. I dream of wielding my pen with the grace and poise of Gabriel García Marquez. Or perhaps, mirroring the prolific nature of, say, a James Patterson. 

In the happy place of my mind, my stories would captivate readers who like novels from a couple of my favorites, Kristin Hannah and Jennifer Donnelly. But reality loves to bring one back down to earth, reminding me that I lack the talent and maybe the genuine passion needed to soar with my heroes.

Yet, I’m constantly studying the craft, chipping away at the rock face of writing every day in hopes my skills will gradually improve. But then again, it’s not like I’m on a job hunt; I’m retired, preferring to spend my days traversing the globe, exploring new realms, and meeting other people.

In contrast (because life is full of contrasts), I consider those who have found success in their second act. There are plenty of examples of people who gained mastery in a second career. Colonel Sanders and his finger-lickin’ good empire is a prime example. Winston Churchill was seventy-eight when he wrote a book that won the Nobel Prize for Literature. And Nelson Mandela first took office as president of South Africa at the wonderful age of seventy-five.

Before I’m gone

I do, in the twilight of my life, aspire to have a sense of mastery over something. In retrospect, I was quite the athlete in high school football, skilled behind the wheel of a stock car (yeah, really), and ran hundred-mile foot races well under their cutoff times. However, it feels like I never truly achieved the capability, the prowess I craved in any of these fields.

The challenging aspect lies in determining when you’ve reached those dizzying heights. If I stacked myself against another writer, I might be seen as a master (unlikely) or a rank amateur. Take amusement parks, for example, they have clear height bars which tell you whether you’re tall or short enough for a ride. It’s simple, you measure up, or you don’t. 

Unfortunately, art isn’t as straightforward as this; it’s a subjective beast.

I’m a member of a critique group. Being part of a critique group opens you up to a lot of judgment. This group of writers that I’ve fallen in with has been together for quite some time, and I’m the freshest face, with less than five years under my belt. Everyone else seems to have reached some level of mastery, with published works, awards and accolades to their name. Compared to them, I’d feel like a bumbling fool. However, they’re kind enough to sugarcoat my failures and praise my slow but steady progress. 

When do we finally get to pat ourselves on the back and proclaim ourselves masters?

Is it the number of books sold? The number of awards cluttering our shelves? Or the coveted title of a New York Times or USA Today bestseller? I like to imagine that the true measure is when you finally feel content with your work, achieving peace after a long and arduous internal struggle. But the outside world loves to cast its doubts, its judgments, and I must admit, I still have thin skin. 

I can’t win over every reader, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. I strive to wow my critique group with my latest piece, hoping they have nothing but praise for it. Unfortunately, criticism and critique go hand in hand, and I do make a horrid mess of the first draft. Which, when listening to various podcasts on craft, most writers do.

Breaking the rules should be done with panache and style. 

I strive not to focus too much on this notion, because deep down I know they’re right. But it seems every time someone in the critique group advises me against something I’ve done, the next book I read completely disregards that advice. However, the group explained to me, that the author had broken the rule with such finesse and talent, that they made it work.

What would Michelangelo have done? 

I’m sure we’re all thankful that Michelangelo didn’t overthink this issue (to our knowledge). But should I aim to study the styles of the literary greats, and seek to write the next One Hundred Years of Solitude? Or can I take satisfaction in creating stories that entertain and spark conversations among the readers of my newsletter, short stories, and books? I can only hope.

So, what does mastery look like for you?