A few days ago in one of my writing groups, a member told me she didn’t like the stories I’d submitted because they were too depressing. “The world is such a mess,” she said. “I don’t want to read things about death.”

While this writer is 100% entitled to her opinion, as well as her subjective preferences and dislikes, I found this a particularly hard comment to take in, even though I dutifully wrote it down and thanked her for it. And before going on, I’ll add that I trust this very talented writer in matters of craft. She and I have been in a group together for more than 30 years, and over those years, she’s offered tons of astute and discerning feedback that has made me a better writer.

But this comment wasn’t about craft. It was about personal preference. That’s what made it so hard to deal with.

And what am I supposed to do with that? Only write about happy things?

I’ve been around many writers who’ve bemoaned their predilection for dark subjects, lamenting, for example, being unable to write about anything but their dysfunctional family, their recently passed lover, their fear of climate disaster, or whatever. But several gurus on writing continue to remind us–we don’t choose our subjects; we submit to them.

Because, whether we like it or not–and whether others like it or not–our purest creative juice can be found in what matters most to us at the moment we’re committing pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Sometimes these can be joyful places; other times we’re compelled to delve into the dark spots. The important thing is to stay with the authentic truth of what matters to us, but attempt to do so in a way to make the impact of what we’re writing universally felt by others.

However, there will be times when these others will not want to feel what we’re writing. All of us have moments where we choose the rom-com instead of the true-to-life re-enactment of some horrible moment in history. And that’s okay. Taking care of ourselves also matters.

So how do we balance our needs to limit how much darkness we can deal with and still be helpful to our peers in the writing world?

We need to bring less of our personal biases and more of our writing selves to the table. First and foremost, we need to consider the piece from the premise of what the writer is trying to do. Then, as much as we can, we need to put our subjectivity aside and respond from an impartial read focusing on our knowledge of craft on where the piece is doing what the writer intended and where it isn’t quite yet meeting that mark. And I noticed, after I got home and read her line comments, that even though my writing group friend’s overall comment in our meeting got under my skin, her notes on the actual manuscript were far more measured and extremely helpful.

And, later I realized that it was actually a good thing l that I knew her biases up front when I read her line comments, because I could evaluate them knowing more about the subjectivity that influenced them. Much as we try to eliminate it, every comment will have a subjective element. There are many kinds of writers and readers out there, all of whom will have their different list of favorite spices to add more perkiness to what’s being offered.

This doesn’t mean that feedback will never sting again. I’ve come up against many readers who don’t get me. But don’t get avant garde jazz or super abstract art. That doesn’t mean it’s bad. It just means I don’t get it.

Anyway, while I’m not ready to abandon dark writing, I am considering the idea of putting together all the joyful poems I’ve written in a little collection. My friend certainly isn’t wrong in wanting to consume content that amplifies all that’s good in life.

I didn’t watch the debate last week. I knew it would make me too anxious, so I made a conscious choice instead to play the piano, my general 9 pm habit. Not knowing anything about the debacle unfolding, I tried to work out knots in a Chopin nocturne and then run through the first movement of the dark and emotional Beethoven Pathetique, giving it all the passion I had as I channeled a niggly unease–perhaps a sixth sense–that things were not going well. What else could be expected from giving a raving liar free liberties to say whatever he wanted without checking a single fact, and knowing that the media instead would be paying the most attention to the other candidate’s slips as warning signs of his age in order to frame that as a more relevant liability?

Circa 1722, German organist and Barouque composer, Johann Unknown source, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

On January 6, 2021, I was also playing the piano–to try to deflect the horror I was feeling as reports of the Capitol Riot began to filter through. When the World Goes Awry, Play Bach, I later titled a chapter in my memoir. Bach is logical; his music patterned on expectations that never deviate too far from what you might expect. It’s like a calming hand on your shoulder, telling you things will be okay.

I fear we’re living in a “post-Bach” world.

As the pictures and videos plastered the news in the aftermath of January 6, I had to face the nagging question. Why should I be wasting my time playing the piano when there’s so much vi­­olence in the world? And now, I’m thinking the same thing as each day inches closer to the possible end of our democracy, especially as the president has just been granted the powers of a king. Is playing the piano any different from the orchestra on the Titanic, fiddling away as the ship went down?

Yet I remember talking with a friend, a visual artist, shortly after the 2016 election. Just do your work–your writing, he said. That’s what we all must do–keep doing our work.

How can we use music, or writing, or painting, any of the arts to channel not only our terror, but our power?

Last night in our poetry critique group, one member presented a chilling and brilliant poem, reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, centering on the psychological effects of the spying on people in East Germany, with only the merest hint of how this was beginning to infiltrate America. The poem was so good, none of us wanted to follow it, but I volunteered. My poem-in-progress contrasted the bleakness of my childhood New York City landscape with my flower garden, exploring through these metaphors themes of aging and the process of acquiring a wisdom that comes hand-in-hand with gratitude, even in times that challenge us and demand our attention to do what we can to make good in the world. It began,

I don’t believe in losing hope
I believe in finding it.

And I do believe we have to keep looking for hope. And that creating art–in any form–is one way of making good in the world, whether you are uncovering horrors, or simply nourishing people by calling attention to beauty and gratitude.This doesn’t mean we can depend on art to change the world on its own, and it doesn’t excuse us from doing more than writing the next poem or making the next painting. ,But art can help us process our deepest feelings, which can enable us to evolve from a state of numbness and shock into a place where we can reclaim our power. And sharing our paintings, photographs, stories with others can also inspire our viewers/listeners to get through their own numbness to a place of action.

What did Arlo Guthrie say? Fifty people a day walking in singing a bar of Alice’s Restaurant and walking out…they may think it’s a movement.