Artistic Self-Doubt

The thoughts started on Sunday. It had only been about a week since I

started writing some ideas for a new mystery novel. It was still very early stages. I had a few new characters and a few characters from the first novel. I had a setting, a murder victim, and some thoughts about who the murderer was. This all sounds very positive. And to any other person the sense of accomplishment would have swelled in his or her chest.

I felt awful. The reality of the situation had started to hit. 

Shit. Could I do this at all? What if I can’t write another story? What if the first one doesn’t get published? Who are these people I’ve created? Are they even a little realistic? How do I do this? Where do I start? Shit. There is a lot of work coming up. Can I do this?

It was a terrible case of artist’s self-doubt.

Churchill talked about his black dog following him around. Black dog

was a gentle euphemism for his struggle with depression. I don’t know

if artists name their doubts, but I hear everyone has them. I don’t

call my doubts anything except for my version of reality in that moment—however unrealistic the thoughts sound to others, or even to myself in retrospect. 

The Globe and Mail featured an article on the filming of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children by Deepa Mehta (http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/arts/movies/deepa-mehta-films-rushdies-midnights-children/article2021293/). Mehta and the crew talked about threats from fundamentalists and censorship, working with a team of Canadians in Sri Lanka on a film that is based in India, and luring crows with fish heads stuffed into fake corpses for the ‘killing fields’ scene.

Mehta spoke of artistic self-doubt when one of the sets was intentionally burned after filming had been completed. Journalist Stephanie Nolan writes, “The last of the flames went out just before dawn a few days ago, and Mehta was suddenly filled with doubt. “I thought, ‘Oh my God, it’s going to be crappy. What have I done? The most beloved book of all time – I’m an idiot. Salman is going to hate it.’” Mehta texted Rushdie to tell him this.

Rushdie immediately texted back: “Every time I finish a book, I think it’s crap. And sometimes it isn’t.””

So, Mehta and Rushdie are world-renowned, they’ve won awards for their work in directing and writing respectively, and they still have moments where they wonder what it is they are doing and if they’ll be able to pull it off. Maybe they have strategies to keep their chin up (Elizabeth George, the best-selling mystery author, find it helps to read through old journals chronicling her self-doubt when she hits the same feelings with a new project). Maybe all artists just carry on, feeling as though they are bumbling through, never quite sure if they can pull off the next trick. 

 And maybe that’s where some of the beauty of art comes: from recognizing the brilliance that can come forth from searching, trying, and pushing on.