My Words Are Not My Own
Thoughts on clarity, expectations, and the fraught relationship between the writer and the reader
Not too long ago, I interviewed the Philippine artist Patricia Eustaquio, who has an eclectic body of work that includes a series of paintings called “Butcher’s Blossoms.” Each depicts a strange, curvaceous, dappled object that looks something like an alien flower or a mutant mushroom. These paintings actually depict one of two things, in super-zoomed detail: a cut of meat or an orchid. And it’s Eustaquio’s intention that it’s nearly impossible to know which. “It’s beauty, and it’s ugly,” she told me with a giggle. “It’s intentionally ambiguous.”
This playfulness struck me as odd. Didn’t she want people to know what she was trying to say with her work? She greeted my question with an awkward pause, during which I felt her judgment raining down upon me for my insistence on clarity and my discomfort with ambiguity. “I just hope they’ll find it interesting,” she said eventually. “If people ask me at an opening, ‘What is it about?’, I’m not very eloquent. I just want them to draw connections from their own personal memories and thoughts. I’m more interested in how one person’s thoughts go from A to D to H than whether this makes them sad and then happy. I want the viewer to step in and contribute his own perspective.”
The kind of narrative journalism I put out into the world is different from Eustaquio’s art: I’m aiming for a level of clarity that she doesn’t need or perhaps even want in her work. But we share a similar mission, which is to create dialogue.
Eustaquio explained her expectations to me. For her, the ways the art speaks to her as she’s making it are largely enough. It’s the process, not the reception, from which she derives her satisfaction and her peace—and there’s a powerful lesson in that.
Often readers have wanted something out of my writing that just hasn’t been there. Several people who have reviewed “Does Jesus Really Love Me?” online have asked why there isn’t more discussion of theology, of how we interpret the key Bible verses that may (or may not) condemn homosexuality. My response: There are tons of books that discuss theology; you can find some academic, some pastor, arguing every interpretation of the verses and defending every point on the theological spectrum. A theological tome may be a reader’s desire, but it was never this writer’s goal.
My hope was to tell some stories that remind the reader of our complicated humanity. When we talk about homosexuality and church and society, we’re not just (or even primarily) discussing an issue. We’re talking about people and their lives. I’ve spent my entire career finding and telling stories. That’s what I know how to do. That’s what I set out to do. And as a storyteller, I have a responsibility to communicate as clearly as I can, using my words, sentences, and paragraphs to guide the reader along.
Here’s my big question: What responsibility does the reader have to try to understand what the writer is trying to do? We only have to look at the Bible to see how fraught the writer-reader experience can be. What is it supposed to be saying? How are we intended to understand it? What do we take away from it when we parse those ancient words, and when do our readers reflect our wants and desires more than those of the authors (or the Author, if you are so inclined)?
As I wrestle with all of this—both as a writer and as a reader—I’m struck by the admirable grace that Patricia Eustaquio grants those who encounter her work. It’s healthy, and it’s something I’m trying to learn from. When you put this thing you’ve created out into the world, you relinquish control over the text even as you hang onto your hopes of what people will get from it. You can’t stand over readers’ shoulders and whisper spoken footnotes of explanation into their ears. And in a very real sense, your words, as perfect or as ill-chosen as they may be, are no longer yours.