Specialism and Versatility

I have been struck today by the versatility of all involved in our little circle of bloggers. Consider what we have done so far:

Hannah Owl: Wonderful stories of her experiences, her very special brand of haiku, deep personal revelations.

Way: Crystal clear recollections of a colorful past, fragrant stories of today, clever little puzzles in verse, observations of people and behavior, humor that never fails to give us a warm glow (oh, and high coos).

Ned: Poetry that ranges from emotions so deep that they touch us all to thoughts on daily life and its mysteries, elegant stories from the past and the present, wry and self effacing humor.

Harvey: Discipline and thought in considering how we should live, finely constructed tales that point out reason so gently yet clearly, wisdom in seeing through to the core of meaning.

Me: Well, Way has already mentioned that he never knows what's coming next on my blog.

In addition, Mad and Josh give us fresh insights from a different point of view. Mad is good at pointing out where his father is not quite right and Josh always has interesting things to say from his own experience.

To me, this is a good thing; I love diversity and variety. But, in thinking of the ways of the world, I wonder if this is where "success" is at. I recall a time in the distant past when I submitted some drawings to Zimbabwe's annual exhibition of local artists' work. My drawings were rejected and a friend, who happened to know one of the judges, found out from him the reasons why. It seems that they were too diverse. I was criticized for not yet having found my "voice". In looking at those works which were accepted, I came to understand what this meant. In particular, I noticed the drawings of an artist the same age as I was. He drew pictures of shoes; in fact, he was more specialized than that: he drew shoes of the raised platform sort that were popular at the time. And that was all he drew, nothing else. Apparently, he had found his "voice".

Turning to the world of literature, I look at the work of those writers who can be said to be successful. We might take John Grisham as an example (mainly because I've read most of his books and enjoy them). I think I read the first of Mr Grisham's books very soon after it was published and I was taken with it immediately. He is the master of the legal thriller, drawing one into the story until one really cares about what happens to the characters. After that first book, I read everything of his that I could get my hands on. And he never fails to deliver.

In time, however, I began to notice that Mr Grisham had become a formula writer; he had found something that worked and he was sticking with it (quite sensibly, since it was earning him pots of money). Mr Grisham has become, as I said, the master of the legal thriller. But he has also stopped being my automatic choice when buying books because I know what I'll find in them. I might still buy one just because he is so good at what he does, but it is more of a coin toss these days.

Having said that, I must give Mr Grisham his due. A while back he wrote a book called A Painted House which is totally different from everything else he has written. It was like a breath of fresh air and demonstrated just how well he can write in other fields than the law. But his best sellers are the legal thrillers.

So. I am asking these questions: Are we losing out by not concentrating on one thing until it becomes our specialty? Are we dissipating our energies in a body of work without central theme or purpose? Does this matter if we're really not interested in the chance of publication?

Personally, I feel that this group has given me so much that has affected and improved my writing beyond measure. To Way I owe the ability to write of things in my own past with the knowledge (astounding as it remains to me) that others might find such things interesting. To Ned I owe the experience of poetry and prose so elegant that I can only look at my own work and try that much harder. To Hannah I owe the understanding that deep personal things are riveting for the reader and that we should dare what has always seemed impossible to us. And to Harvey I owe the experience of a teaching style so light and unforced that the matter of learning becomes the more enjoyable.

So my answer to the questions is basically that I cannot afford to ignore the lessons I am learning merely to embark upon a quest for a specialism that might offer success, but includes the proviso that I lose everything else.

But what do you think?