Apparently, I am the Last Dangerous Carrot

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.


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?


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