Some time ago, interviewing the writer V.S. Naipaul, I struggled to get him to do what writers are often asked to do: to apply published insights to new territory — in a way, to become a pundit. I realized, the more I struggled, that Mr. Naipaul, in refusing these prompts, was defending a notion of writing that is at war with instantaneousness.
“There are two ways of talking,” he said. “One is the easy way, where you talk lightly, and the other one is the considered way. The considered way is what I have put my name to. I wouldn’t put my name to the easy thoughts, because you can often have outrageous views, passionate views, and that’s the source of your thoughts, eventually. But when they occur, they are very rough and brutal. And so a lot of writers’ time is spent in working out or refining coarse thought.”
If the instantaneous culture threatens this idea of refined thoughts, so does the prevalence of feedback. The writer now moves in a world that not only expects speed, but also floods her with data on how she’s doing as she does it — from Amazon sales ranks to most-e-mailed lists to hashtagged reviews of books by readers who have just begun to read them.
Writers, like everyone else, relish feedback. But many will tell you that their art requires sequestration from feedback, for a time, to go into the creative wilds and let their minds roam freely — and then, when it’s time, return to the world and be judged. With no judgment at all, their art would die. But with always-on judgment, it may never reach the status of art.
“A New, Noisier Way of Writing,” Anand Giridharadas, NYT, February 24, 2012.
