On writing

I once thought I’d write a book.

I once wrote the start of a book. Not once, if we’re being honest. Three or maybe four times. This was when I was young — fifteen, fourteen, maybe younger.

Then, writing was an escape. Therapy, catharsis. I tried to draw, to paint, to craft. I was not skilled in that way, and I struggled to accept it.

But I could write. That’s what they said — my teachers. As soon as I could write, I did. Short stories, novellas, nonfiction, articles, poems, thought pieces. It was bad, looking back. But “good” for my age and experience, sure.

Looking back again, I wonder if they meant I was good at telling stories — of conveying ideas and messages and lessons, or if I had good grammar and prose for my age.

No one reads a book because the words are put together nicely. They read to escape, learn, probe their own mind or soul.

Writing is selfish. You either want to write a bestseller and see your name on the NYT bestseller list or Oprah’s Book Club, or win the Booker award; or you want to write for yourself, unworried by how many copies you don’t sell.

No one endures the process of writing a book so Joanne can skim through a novel by the poolside or Jay can skip sections while on the toilet.

We write because we believe our stories matter. And if they matter to someone else, too, all the better.

Back then, I kept a notebook of quotes from my favorite books. A small Moleskine. I filled it up, I think — I haven’t seen it in years. I believe it’s in a box in my mother’s garage, a fifty-gallon plastic bin marked “Kristin.”

I wanted to write something so powerful that someone would want to write it down in their own notebook, keep it, revisit it.

I wanted to write something that would make someone have a physical reaction, like: “It all ends in tears anyway.” (Kerouac)

A quote that is as powerful without context as it is nestled within the pages of a book.

This, I struggled with, too. Do I need to explain that a quote is “nestled,” let alone that it is within “the pages of a book”? No — the quote is in the context of a story. The reader gains little from thinking a quote is nestling anywhere. “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” (Kerouac)

The hardest part about improving as a writer is allowing your ideas to stand on their own, in simple language. Writing is not about the specific words we choose but how we use them. (Here, I refrained from saying “how we wield them.”)

Art taught me this, too. I appreciate detailed art — the kind early Dutch scene with enough detail to linger on for hours. An entire story captured on canvas under gallery lights.

But that kind of art does not make me feel anything beyond admiration for the artist’s talent (and patience). It does not teach me anything.

One fall day I went to the Guggenheim for the first time. I didn’t know that the majority of the museum was for rotating exhibitions. The spiraling innards taken over by this retrospective or that collection.

This day, I saw On Kawara. I walked from the ground floor, around and around the spiral ramp until I stood at the top balcony, confused about what I’d seen.

Kawara is well known for his Today series. It’s a concept so simple it’s confusing. It confused me because it was featured in one of the world’s most famous museums, and it confused me because I was moved by it in ways I couldn’t understand.

The Today series consists, in part, of the Date paintings. Each is a canvas with a bold, usually dark background, and the day’s date centered, in white. Each date — the date on which each painting was created — is written in the convention of the place it was painted.

Kawara catalogued each painting in the _One Hundred Years Calendar,_ consisting of 48 journals.

I struggled with this: Kawara could not have created this series for a mass audience, or to sell his art. I wondered what each piece, each date meant to him, because he did not create one every day. What made a date a _Date series_ day?

During each year that he created the paintings — from January 4, 1966 until his death — Kawara created between 63 and 241 paintings. Never 365.

He painted 3,000 in all.

I struggled more with his most famous work, _One Million Years._ At the center of this piece of “art” was the date on which Kawara conceived of the project. Before that date, he lists the preceding one million years. After conception date, he lists the forthcoming one million years. Past. Future.

The years are typed in a thick book. I marveled at it. I can’t remember if what I saw at the Guggenheim was the original, or a copy, but what does it matter? It was the heft and insanity of the thing that was the point.

Turning the pages, I wondered, “Why?” And “For whom?”

The work is sometimes performed by two people, who read the one million years Past and Future at the same time. I wonder in what direction they read. Chronologically? Or, do they meet in the middle? How long does it take?

In 2004, one of Kawara’s _Date paintings_ sold for $4.2 million. I wondered not who bought it — perhaps someone for whom that date held significance — but why it was bid so high. Implying that date was significant to multiple people.

The date: May 1, 1987.

Was Kawara an artist, or an author? His work was the written word (or number). Why is writing _not_ art? If I explain a Renaissance tapestry to you, is it worth less? (Yes, it is.)

Could anyone put words together such that they would be worth millions of dollars? Even books fetch obscene prices at auction because they are first editions or otherwise printed in a unique or rare manner. No one pays millions of dollars for a .txt file. (Editor’s note: Perhaps now they do, with NFTs.)

Kawara did put words together in a way that was worth millions. Visually. But the words were not even his own. They were just dates.

What made May 1, 1987 worth millions of dollars was the meaning, the message, the medium.

Or, perhaps, it’s as simple as: Someone thought it looked cool.

Today, I wonder: Would I pay $4.2 million for my favorite Kerouac quote if it were painted on a canvas?

More important: Would it then mean more to me than if I scribbled it in my notebook?

I don’t think so.