Over at the Battersblog, Lee Battersby asked me for my thoughts about the writer as artist.
I am the last in a long line of folk doing cameos on this topic over here.
Sample:
The topic assigned by the boss of the blog is ‘The writer as artist’ and I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks now, in between other time-consuming and annoying activities (PhD, day job, housework, etc). And it’s been making me grumpy because I can’t put my finger on a specific answer to the implied question. It’s just given me a lot more questions, with no answers.
Where’s art come from?
Is it art just because I say it is?
Is it not art just because I don’t like it?
Is it only art only if paint is involved?
How can words be art?
Who judges its value, gives a gold star, a mark out of ten?
Is art simply doing something for the sake of doing something?
If my marks from the Australia Council are low, does it mean I’m a bad writer, a bad artist, no matter how many awards I might win during my career?
And what’s with this deathless prose gig?