Back in my 20s, I had a conversation with a friend about writing poetry. I was preoccupied with writing (unintentionally) bad poetry of my own and had asked whether he, an English PhD candidate, ever wrote poetry. He told me that he used to do so when he was younger but eventually gave it up, for he came to the realization that he was actually writing prose, not poetry, and not especially good prose at that. He decided that he didn’t have the talent for it and so abandoned his pursuit, dedicating himself to other endeavors. It occurred to me that if this friend—an English PhD candidate—thought that his own poetry was bad, then he would have found mine atrocious—laughable even. The principle underlying his thinking seemed to be that if you can’t do something reasonably well, then you shouldn’t do it at all. But what I implicitly heard—the message that I felt—was that the world was better off without bad poetry. This, of course, entailed that the world was better off without my own bad poetry, which made me feel a bit sad and deflated. After all, having no formal training in poetry (beyond the third grade), I didn’t really know what I was doing or what I was supposed to be doing.
At the time, I wasn’t particularly concerned about whether what I was writing constituted poetry or prose; I simply enjoyed the process of experimentation and getting some of my thoughts and ideas on to paper. Although I haven’t written a poem, or bad prose, in a long time, my friend didn’t deter me. (And I have since moved on to writing monotonous, rambling, arrhythmical, and disconnected songs for piano.) I am still a shameless champion of the view that it is better to write a bad poem than no poem at all. In what follows, I will explain my reasons for thinking so and hopefully provide you will some motivation to keep trucking along with your own creative pursuits, however embarrassing and mediocre they may be.
The first reason (1) why it’s better to write a bad poem than no poem at all is that writing a good poem generally requires that you first write plenty of bad poems. With few, if any, exceptions, producing quality work in any creative domain requires considerable practice and many failed attempts. The recognition of this has prompted some creators to develop a practice of regular—sometimes daily—creative production. In this view, it’s important not to be too precious about one’s work. It’s more beneficial for an artist to paint, say, 20 small paintings in a year than one large painting that is intended to be a great. The idea is that you learn more from painting 20 small pieces than you do from painting one large piece; there are more opportunities for growth and progress in the former case than in the latter. Consider that we generally only see a small fraction of a great artist’s body of work—the success stories, the paintings that hang on museum walls, the works that are highly praised. However, if we were to look through their complete body of work, we would also see the abandoned canvases and failed or unexceptional results. The great works of most artists are generally preceded by countless hours of practice and experimentation. Alas, most of us cannot skip the grueling practice and experimentation stage of an art form and jump right to the timeless masterpiece stage.
To appreciate the force of this point, consider a real-life example drawn from a photography classroom. On the first day of class, Jerry Uelsmann (University of Florida), divided his film photography class into two groups. He told the first group, the quantity group, that they would be graded on how many photographs they produced; one “hundred photos would rate an A, ninety photos a B, eighty photos a C, and so on.” He told the second group, the quality group, that they would be graded on the quality or excellence of their work, and that they only had to submit a single photograph. To get an A, the photograph had to be nearly perfect. At the end of the semester, what Uelsmann discovered to his surprise was that all the best photos were produced by the quantity group. Whereas the quality group spent most of their time speculating about how to produce the perfect photograph, the quantity group produced hundreds of photographs, experimenting with lighting, composition, darkroom techniques, etc. along the way [https://jamesclear.com/repetitions]. * While it would be a mistake to draw any firm conclusions from a single piece of anecdotal evidence, this case is helpful in illustrating how a creative practice can contribute to the improvement of one’s skills and creative output.
The second reason (2) for plodding along with your mediocre creative pursuits is that we gain a host of psychological benefits from engaging in creative work. And most of these benefits do not depend upon the quality of the work itself. It’s the process, not the final product, that matters. For one thing, we know that it can be deeply cathartic to get something out of oneself in the form of a song, poem, or painting. Pent up feelings of frustration, sadness, or fear can be isolating and debilitating; they often prompt us to withdraw from others and become prisoners of our minds’ interiors. Releasing them through acts of creative expression is often liberating and can lighten a burdensome cognitive-emotional load. Engaging in creative work, such as drawing, can also induce a relaxed and mindful state, thereby quieting an overactive central nervous system. Indeed, author and teacher of Buddhist meditation practices, Sharon Salzberg, believes that making art can itself be a form of meditation (Your Brain on Art).
Thirdly (3), a work of art is a way of becoming oneself or of finding out who one is. We are often passive participants of life. And we rarely have time to pause and make something in a free and open space. We are hampered by habit and bogged down by the drudgery of daily life. But when we engage in creative activity, we give a kind of physical reality to what is within us. And through the process of doing this, we often discover something about who we are. To be sure, as the existentialists would have it, we define ourselves through all our actions, not just the creative ones or those identified as art. However, works of art, which are created in a space of freedom and openness, often have their source in our deeper nature. A musician might write a song that reflects their sense of style, aesthetic sensibility, emotional state, personal history, or cognitive stance toward their inner experience or the external world. Upon listening to it, they will often see something of their own self in it—something that grew out of their subjective experience or the neglected wellsprings of their own minds.
This is one of the reasons why making art of any kind can be so rewarding. Author Kurt Vonnegut captured this insight in a well-known letter that he wrote to a classroom of students. In 2006, students of a New York City English teacher, Ms. Lockwood, asked her students to write to their favorite author and persuade them to visit the school. Vonnegut was the only author to respond to the students. Although he did not visit the school, he responded in a letter with advice about how to live a fulfilling life. He instructed them to practice “any art—music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage—no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.” As Vonnegut notes here, there is a certain thrill associated with creating—with giving birth, as it were—to something unique that grows out of oneself. Doing this can be tremendously uplifting, even if the final product isn’t any good. Vonnegut encourages the students not to worry about the quality of the result. Later in the letter, as homework for that evening, he instructs the students to write, and then destroy, a six-line rhyming poem. Even though the poems will be destroyed, their creators will be “gloriously rewarded,” for their souls will have grown.
Relatedly, contemplating our own works of art can provide us with a kind of personal insight or self-understanding. We often take our art to reflect something important about who we are; in some cases, it explores feelings, thoughts, or experiences that had not previously been expressed. To be sure, this contemplation can take place at various stages of the creative process. It may take place at the very beginning of the process when we first consider what we will create, throughout the process as we try to adjust the work according to our creative vision, or at the end as we assess what we have created. When we reflect upon our creation, at any point in the process, we may become consciously aware of what is going on within us.
Moving now beyond personal benefits, (5) you might move or affect someone with your art, even if it’s not particularly good. Personally, I have felt that a work of art was not a complete failure if it affected even one person (where this includes random strangers on the Internet). Some art theorists (defenders of the expression theory of art, in its various forms) believe that the function, or sine qua non, of works of art is to express feelings or ideas with others. While I don’t believe that works of art must do this, clearly many of them do, and we often create works of art for this purpose. These works of art—these acts of expression—often move others who can relate to them. Indeed, in some cases, our own acts of creative self-discovery can assist others in their attempts at self-understanding. And so, even if your art affects just one person, you can feel satisfied that it was not created in vain.
Finally, (6) the world is more colorful, varied, and interesting when everyone—not just an elite group of experts or geniuses—makes art. In my view, few experiences are more uplifting and inspirational than walking through a children’s art show or watching a group of young students perform in a play or orchestra concert. Although the work or performance may be imperfect, there is a freshness, authenticity, and beauty in what is produced. On such occasions, we find ourselves in the presence of something fragile and deeply human. And just as we take the life of each human being to be precious and valuable, so also should we look upon their art – which is the unique voice of a vulnerable, sensitive, and statistically improbable creature—as something special that matters. We should be open and receptive to its significance and, at times, elusive or recalcitrant beauty.
Writer and clergyman, Henry van Dyke, urged us to use what talents we possess, for “the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang the best.” Van Dyke, who encourages here a kind of democratization of art, recognized that we all have a song to contribute to the great and varied forest of human creation. You do not need the voice or lung capacity of Adele or Luciano Pavarotti to sing; you can be a Bob Dylan or Tom Waits.
To sum up, for reasons of self and world, you should continue with your creative endeavors. Even if your work is trite, uninspiring, dull, jarring, or lacking in technical skill, you should produce it anyway; there is much to gain in the present moment and throughout a lifetime from a creative practice. The process itself—the journey—can be deeply meaningful and enriching. As a creator, you should worry less about the quality of each individual piece and focus instead about cultivating a creative practice. The world is more varied, colorful, and interesting with your art in it. And you, as its creator, will live a more joyful and fulfilling life by exercising your God-like ability to create something new that reflects the world and yourself.
*This case is cited by James Clear on his blog and in his book, Atomic Habits, but originally appears in Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orlan