Show Up To The Arena As the Artist, Not the Critic — Even Though It Sucks
Show Up To The Arena As the Artist, Not the Critic — Even Though It Sucks

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I’ve spent the last few days dreading writing an article. I told myself that I would, therefore, the rebellious five-year-old inside of me created “necessary” tasks so I could avoid putting my ass in this chair and writing.

Theodore Roosevelt once wrote a poem called The Man In The Arena. If you haven’t read it, it goes a little something like this:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood;”

I love this poem, and it speaks to me as an artist. But also…didn’t he care what the critics thought? Theodore clearly never met my Grandparents.

I remember debuting my first play at seventeen. I wrote a story about a farmer and his wife that functioned as an allegory for my parents and their tumultuous divorce. I put my heart and soul into it, and a local theater company selected it to be produced.

On opening night, my entire family rolled up in formal wear to a stuffy little black box in downtown Columbus. Someone brought me a bouquet. Afterwards, standing around in the lobby, their awkward silence made it pretty damn clear what was going on.

My family hated my play.

My Grandma, with whom I’ve always had a contentious relationship, couldn’t stop doting on another play, written by a younger student. Okay, okay, the student’s play was freaking brilliant. But mine wasn’t bad, right? I honestly can’t remember. I’ve since blocked it out.

I was used to putting myself out there for an audience of mostly strangers. As a high schooler, I had my fair share of cacophonous band concerts and lost field hockey matches. I even had experience in local writing workshops and zero period creative writing class.

I’d schlepp to school at 6am to share writing, wide awake on my drive to campus, fantasizing about my words being said out loud. Sometimes my pieces would knock it out of the park, other times, I’d do just fine. I was dabbling in rejection.

But from classmates. Strangers. Not my family.

The truth is, I was already struggling with rejection from my Grandmother. She was the kind of woman who played favorites. She spoiled us with gifts, but unevenly. She doled out compliments and shopping trips to offspring who did what she wanted and acted just so. She liked to pit us together. She liked to dangle us in front of each other to see what would push our buttons.

So here I was, trying to dangle something in front of her for approval. Something I thought she’d love, like the painting she bought from my art show, or the time I was Princess Diana at the wax museum. Oh wait, no. She criticized my wrinkly blouse. Lady Di would never be wrinkly! I was eight.

When she hated my play, I decided I wasn’t very good at writing plays.

Later on in my professional career, I had an abusive boss who loved to manipulate, humiliate, compare, and criticize. It made her feel powerful. Because in reality, she was a woman with a small character who felt like she had little power in life.

She made me feel like a terrible employee. In reality, I did a damn good job covering two desks, working two assistant jobs, all on the salary of an intern. One time she publically screamed at me for asking if she could take a call. I had been juggling four other phone lines.

The point is, YOU CANNOT LISTEN TO SMALL, IGNORANT, SELFISH, BRUTAL, BROKEN PEOPLE and consider their feedback valid. It is not about you. They are the reason for a lot of hurt in the world, and they have to live with that. Tune them out and keep making art. I know that it’s not easy.

“Well, maybe you’re just not very good at…”

Stop right there.

I’m not saying **constructive** criticism isn’t extremely important. It truly is.

In college, all my dreams came true when I got into a playwrighting class. Here was my chance to learn, to grow, to tell my Grandma I got a 4.0 in playwrighting, so there.

The class was full of creative students from all different majors and stages of college. We met up in the art building — it smelled like oil paints — with an incredibly cool professor who was up on all the hot plays out of New York. Every week, we’d bring in plays we’d written from a prompt.

The issue with plays? There really are no rules. For a type A creative, I was waiting for my gold star. The problem? I got a gold star every week. Everyone did. There was very little constructive criticism. Initially, it felt like I’d hit the jackpot. But after a while, I was craving notes to improve.

If everyone’s piece of art is wonderful, then how do we discern the fantastic from the good? For those of us who pursue creativity as a career, this is a really important question. So, in my opinion, criticism is actually integral. The intention is key.

Do you want to build the artist up by making their work better? Or tear them down because you’re an insecure asshole?

The poem finishes this way: Speaking about the artist who puts himself in the arena…

“Who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

It’s true. The critic will never know the rush of the post play curtain call, or the satisfaction of having someone read their words. But since this article is for you, the artist, let’s talk about your creative mindset while creating.

And at least if we fail, we do so daring greatly. This concept inspired Brené Brown’s book: Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead. Brené is astounding and if you haven’t watched her Ted Talks, do so immediately!

Brené is a researcher and author who studies vulnerability. Artists engage in this vulnerability all the time — writing the play, putting ourselves out there — but it can be so goddamned hard to feel the pain that follows when we don’t feel that our work is welcomed and appreciated in the world.

“We numb vulnerability. We are the most in debt, obese, addicted, and medicated adult cohort in US history. The problem is…that you cannot selectively numb emotion. You can’t say, here’s the bad stuff — here’s vulnerability, here’s grief, here’s shame, here’s disappointment — I don’t want to feel these. You cannot selectively numb. When we numb those, we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness. And then, we are miserable and we are looking for purpose and meaning.”

We don’t want to feel vulnerable, so we run away. We tell ourselves we’re bad at writing, no one wants to read our articles, our play is terrible, and we’re an awful assistant. Instead, we drink too much coffee and obsessively decorate the house for Christmas, in place of doing the work that we care deeply about.

And then we hate ourselves for not writing.

So the answer? Endure the tomatoes that are thrust your way, and trust that it will be worth it. Trust your desire to make art, so much so, that we don’t even notice the tomatoes. Or maybe we make art with the tomatoes. Find other people in the arena, join hands, and smile at the face of criticism.

We stand in the arena. And simply say, I am here. And the critic will simply never know that power…that feeling…that freedom.

// Flannery Maney is an LA based screenwriter who is currently living in Europe. Follow her on her site or on Instagram! To check out her band, click here! This article includes affiliate links.

Read more from Flannery:
['Flannery Maney']
['Writing', 'Art', 'Resilience', 'Vulnerability', 'Criticism']