“I’d do it again, ma, I’d do it agen; for a principle’s a principle.”
“Ah, you lost your best principle, me boy, when you lost your arm…”
-Sean O’Casey, Juno and the Paycock.
I first read that exchange as a teenager. My high school English teacher was encouraging me to read George Orwell, Bertolt Brecht, and Sean O’Casey. That line, more than anything else I read during the period, made me pause, put the book down, and think.
I’ve been thinking ever since.
In broad strokes, you could say this essay is just another middle-aged man writing about authenticity. That seems to be the way of things. Men of certain persuasions -writers, artists, wankers- hit a certain age, change the contents of their wardrobe, and start to worry loudly about their search for authenticity. They just need to feel something real, man. The good news -or bad news, depending on how badly you want to read that version of the essay- is that I did my searching a long time ago.
Any performer or artist reaches a point when they start to think on what their work has been about. For me, the realisation was that my work and my life have both been about the same things. The second half of my thirties has broadly been about learning to live in the moment. Learning to take my self-worth and enjoyment from doing a thing, not having done it. And the same themes played out in my writing, in different ways. I write -and have always written- about people be coming better or worse at being who they really are. Self-awareness.
I think also, politically, it came with the journey toward shutting up and listening. Sure, you can be a straight white man who means well, but if you keep wanting to explain that to people, you’re really just finding another way for your ego to get in the way of progress. I don’t think it’s anyone else’s job to document my progress. I don’t want to be seen to be learning, I want to learn.
One of the most pleasing aspects of my own personal journey has been that I now understand why certain things mean so much to me. Figuring myself out meant I also figured out what it was about the work of Paul Westerberg, for instance, that spoke to me so clearly. And it renewed my love for Elmore Leonard’s work. Leonard had always been one of my main influences, but I’d never put much thought into why. Other than saying the same things as everyone else; great dialogue, interesting characters.
As a writer I will never be fit to be in the same library as Leonard, let alone consider myself part of the same discussion. But what I like in his work are the same things I explore in my own. People may, when they’re being wrong, criticise Leonard for weak plotting. But -like thinking it’s clever to criticise Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark for ‘not doing anything’ – that completely misses the point of the work.
Leonard wrote about character, not plot. And character in the old-school sense, the trait and quality that is revealed by your choices and actions. He wrote about doing. He wrote about characters learning to accept who they are, and survive, or continuing to live in denial, and failing. Sure, Jack Foley and Karen Sisco could have lived happily ever after, if they had become different people. But they had to be who they are, and that meant a different ending. For Karen, changing who she was to be with Jack would have meant giving up an important part of herself. For Jack, giving up his criminal ways to be with Karen would have meant giving up the one thing he was good at, and what would he be without that? Leonard wrote about craft. He wrote about technique. Broadly he wrote about the importance of finding a thing that you’re good at, and doing it. 52 Pickup may be an exciting and dark tale of blackmail and violence in 70’s Detroit, but our protagonist, Harry, isn’t your typical thriller character. He wins by embracing who he is and what he wants. He’s an engineer by trade and wants the criminals off his back. Rather than go in for some clichéd dramatic shoot-out, he sits at the drawing board and uses his skills, his craft, to design a way out. Marrying his skill to his desire is what ultimately gets him out of the hole. Be who you are. Right now. To live.
I’ve always been drawn to arts and professions that come with a proof of doing. And I’ve not always understood why that was. I love standup comedy. That’s one of the ultimates. How do you gain respect at comedy? By being seen to do it. Whether you live or die on stage, you’ve levelled up by doing it. And then, as you get better at it, you can be seen to be getting better at it. You’re seen making people laugh, or not. For a long time, I thought those were the reasons I kept getting the itch to do comedy. Then I did comedy, and realised what I was really searching for. It wasn’t the more ego-tinged touches of the earning respect or laughter, it was the notion of being in the moment doing something, and searching for a craft that matched up to that inner need.
I’m never happier than when I’m riding my fixed-gear bike. Because the doing is all that matters. The pedals. Your muscles. Your lungs. Your heart. The feel of the road through the drivetrain. The route ahead. The decisions to turn or not turn, stop or carry on, slow down or speed up. There’s no second guessing. You’re in the moment.
Becoming a bike courier was the natural evolution of that. Being paid to just do? Being paid to just be?
No office politics. No hoops. No need to worry or second guess about my productivity levels or whether I was seen to be working. I was doing a job that was judged purely on whether I did the job. And for my own mental state, I was spending hours a day simply being.
When it comes to writing, I’ve learned to enjoy writing. I wasted a decade of my life worrying about having written. Worrying about the office politics. The doors that wouldn’t open to me. The chances I wouldn’t get. But ultimately, the joy I get from writing is sinking into the moment of doing it. Becoming the character, hearing their voice, seeing where the scene goes. The rest? Who cares.
I’m enjoying my current day job for much the same reason. It doesn’t pay well, it doesn’t come with a ‘career’ attached, and it certainly doesn’t earn respect. But minute by minute, hour by hour, I’m just doing.
My darkest moments, the times when my mood drops, my introspection starts, my fears overwhelm me….they’re all moments when I’ve stopped doing, moments when I’m not in the moment.
For me -and I can only speak for me- I’ve learned that my approach to art is the same as my approach to life and to ‘principles.’ It’s a practical approach. Art and principles are things that you do. They are to be applied. You live them, in the moment, and find yourself somewhere in the doing. Life, too, needs to be found in the living, not what you hope to get out of having lived.
Batman once said ‘it’s not who you are underneath, it’s what you do that defines you.’ But he was a grown man dressed in a stupid costume, about to jump off a rooftop, so his advice is mostly wrong. Finding out who you are underneath, and matching it up to what you do, that’s the ticket. Yoda said ‘do, or do not, there is no try.’ But that’s also complete bollocks, because the doing and the trying are the same process. Jason Isbell said ‘find what makes you happy girl, and do it ‘til you’re gone.’ I think he’s closer to the truth. Ultimately the validation you seek can only come from yourself. If you’re looking for someone else to tell you whether your work matters right now, that means you already know the answer. But only you can change that, and only you can find the work that does matter. So whether you want to write, or stack shelves, or tell jokes, or plot the downfall of western democracy, stop thinking, stop talking and start doing.