The perfect antidote to the toxicity of the current productivity narrative, this collection of essays on creativity features 21 Canadian and international writers, providing warmth, support, camaraderie, and empathy.
In a world that worships productivity, creating for art’s sake is seen as romantic and nearly indefensible. For anyone who has ever struggled to honour their artistic impulses, Bad Artist offers an antidote to this toxic productivity narrative. This collection of essays features 21 Canadian and international writers from a breadth of backgrounds and experiences whose lives are not always proscribed by predictable work schedules or reliable support systems. They fit creating into the cracks of their lives, and through their stories show us all how to keep creating—not producing.
As artists, many of whom have faced systemic barriers, the collection’s contributors offer pragmatic reflections on resisting the culture of productivity, reminding us that creativity can take many forms. Taken together, the essays present a comprehensive rumination on creativity in late capitalism, providing warmth, support, camaraderie, and empathy. It’s The Paris Review meets the Billfold’s “Doing Money” with a generous dash of the friend who knows you’re an artist even on the days when you’re not so sure.
INTRODUCTION
“Art without commerce is a hobby.”
These words, spoken with much authority to a group of senior fine arts majors, are the kind of words that those who create art are unable to ignore. We fret over this idea—the thrum of this judgment never far from our thoughts—that if we are not engaged in commerce, then we are not professional; and if we are not professional, can we even call ourselves artists? Art of any form, by its very nature, cannot or should not be quantified, and yet writers measure pages and words; visual artists measure canvases completed; fibre artists measure pieces created all in an effort to appear “productive,” to perhaps justify this impulse to create. The notion of creating for art’s sake is then seen as hopelessly romantic and nearly indefensible. Of course one can engage in art, but it better be for money, for that is the only marker of success. But was that professor’s pronouncement nothing more than an old, tenured windbag parroting the cultural norms and expectations that had, in fact, deemed him “successful”? In Western culture, it is almost impossible to separate professional from commercial, and so the artist is legitimized—distinguished from the hobbyist—by their ability to earn money. Professional art, then, is inherently capitalist.
The Bad Artist editors met in a different university arts classroom some years later. We belonged to different generational cohorts, had jobs ranging from waitress to research scientist, and had completely different reasons for wanting to pursue what is arguably one of the strangest academic honours: a Master of Fine Arts. Despite these differences, the ability to enrol in the MFA at the University of King’s College showed us that we had a few things in common: notably, we were privileged enough to exist in a sphere in which pursuing graduate work in creative writing was financially, practically, and systemically possible. Furthermore, entry into the program, regardless of our individual goals, implied a commitment to engage with our creative work in a professional context at least to some degree. And to that end, we have mostly “succeeded,” if success is measured in terms of contracts and remuneration. Some of us have traditionally published books, others have used their degree to land teaching jobs, none of us, though, is able to live off our art specifically, thus begging the question: How do we live for art if art can’t support our ability to live? More importantly, is that even the right question to ask?
This anthology seeks to be an antidote to the toxicity of the current productivity narrative as well as the negativity of those who will have you believe that you must justify your yearning for an artistic life. The germ of this idea came from co-editor Gillian Turnbull, who on a cold day during the pandemic met with contributor Linda Browne to talk about writing. They stood on either side of a picnic table in a park near their housing co-op discussing how best to organize their time as external pressures came down on them to work more, harder, quicker. Suddenly the sacred space of home was gone, the lines between home life and work life blurred. Whereas once Gillian had carved out the time after coming home from work to write, she now couldn’t justify logging off before bed. Nor, if she happened to find a moment to create, could she face yet more time onscreen.
Linda, still dealing with the effects that long Covid had had on her thinking and creative process, agreed. Add to this their domestic pressures—keep house, grow food, save money. Only someone with a partner who keeps home life going actually finds time to create, they joked. They both had artistic partners and shared responsibilities, and neither could understand how to implement the work model espoused by productivity experts like Cal Newport. There was no closing the office door to think, no segregating solo time for the purposes of creation. Someone needed to talk about this.
Before Gillian presented this idea to the collective, however, our fate had already been predicted. One slushy winter night in February 2019, our writing group—for that’s what we were at the time, a few of us from the mfa program who lived in Toronto and met regularly to workshop each other’s writing—sat around a table in the party room at Christian’s condo. We were pretty excited that night because Christian’s mother, Geraldine Stringer, the famous psychic and subject of his memoir would be joining us. Christian helped his mother into the room and got her settled in her chair. With an aura of authority that contradicted her frailty, she looked around the table and just began. No one was expecting a reading, but there we were, learning some surprising things from the woman who had spent a lifetime using her gifts to solve crimes, teach others how to tap into their own psychic abilities, and reassuring her son that it was safe for him to fly.
Gillian was to win awards; Pamela was “the dark horse” and would surprise everyone, especially herself; Nellwyn had been torn on which program to attend, which was true; and then, most surprisingly, Geraldine told us that we would go into business together, or maybe work on a book together . . . none of us can remember her exact wording. We would often joke around about opening a writing retreat, mostly because we all really wanted a writing retreat, but how could a group of people write a book together? Whether the book you are holding is the fulfillment of a prophecy, evidence of the power of suggestion, or a complete coincidence, it is a poignant tribute to the late, great Geraldine Stringer, and the manifestation of collective creative power.
In this anthology, you will hear from Canadian and international writers from a breadth of backgrounds and experiences—many whom identify as bipoc, women, lgbtqia2s+, neurodivergent, and disabled. These writers represent a body of creators whose lives are not proscribed by predictable work schedules or reliable support systems; they fit creating into the cracks of their lives, those unexpected windows of time, and through their generous stories, show us all how to keep creating—not producing—in the face of systemic barriers and entrenched white patriarchy.
Like we said, we arrived at King’s from different worlds and with different intentions.
For better or worse, Nellwyn has rarely experienced a distinction between art, work, and life. In her family of professional artists and art educators, drawing and singing and storytelling were like bread and butter. As a child, it probably would have seemed strange to Nellwyn if her godfather didn’t sing opera as they hiked their fly-fishing rods to the river. Making and teaching art professionally, full time, was not only possible but also demonstrably normal. Nellwyn was older than she would like to admit before she realized how anomalous this really is. It is painfully boring—not to mention obnoxious—to say that Nellwyn has always been a writer, but there is no other way to tell her story. She began in theatre, studying playwriting and devised theatre at York University before pursuing her mfa. Almost as soon as she landed at King’s and met the people who would become her co-editors, Nellwyn knew she was exactly where she belonged. Since then, she has had the privilege of working with an incredible group of literary folks as an author, editor, bookseller, and teacher. It was community and collaboration that drew Nellwyn to theatre as an emerging artist, and Bad Artist is an opportunity to bring art and work and life together again, in community.
For Pamela, the path to this anthology was more like a circuitous and often tedious detour, with no pretty towns to stop at or stunning vistas along the way to make it all worthwhile. A former copy writer turned newspaper copy editor turned corporate cog turned cook turned teacher of cooking turned teacher of writing, Pamela was looking for a way to make a living teaching—a vocation she realized in her fifth decade had been her calling all along. In conversation with the chair of the English department at Seneca College (now Polytechnic), she was told to get a master’s degree and come back. And so, she did. But then she drank the mfa Kool-Aid and met people who inspired her, and she started writing a book (as was required by the program), caught up in the idea that maybe she could be a real writer instead (real meaning a published book author). Her book was, um, problematic, but Plan A panned out, and she has now taught at Seneca Polytechnic for nearly five years. But even better, she met this lot. For the other three editors, this is a chance for a second book, another credit, but for Pamela, it is an opportunity to insinuate herself into this wonderful group of talented writers and editors—like the dweeby kid on the schoolground getting invited to play with the cool kids.
Christian seemed destined for a writing career, yet embracing it took him nearly forty years. He hand-wrote his first book at age eleven while journeying with his famous mother across North America. The book, which foreshadowed his future interest in the sciences, depicted a doctor navigating the universe in a giant hospital spacecraft treating diverse alien species. Fast forward a few decades, and Christian’s professional life became deeply entrenched in molecular cancer biology and basic science research, a dramatic departure from the realm of creative writing. That all changed during a book club meeting where Christian shared his unique upbringing with a celebrity psychic mother and his eagerness to write about his experiences. Gillian, who had just finished her own application to the King’s mfa program, urged Christian to apply too. For Christian, the decision was easy. The chance to hone his writing skills and receive mentorship from published authors while maintaining his full-time job presented an opportunity too good to pass up. Yet, the most rewarding outcome from his time at King’s was forming a writer’s group—a quartet that continues to offer support and guidance.
Gillian was well into a dead-end career when she started writing. She taught music courses at Toronto Metropolitan University; courses that grew in number and capacity until she was collapsing under the weight of eight hundred students a year. No permanent position was forthcoming, and it was time to try something else. As her publication train paused, then stalled, she cast about for opportunities to write on the music she loved, landing a regular spot on the roots music site No Depression. It was here she found community and craved more; a place where she could write regularly and without the pretension of academia for a group of people who cared. Bit by bit, she published: short pieces, interviews, longer features, leading her to decide it was time to focus this energy into a book. At King’s, she found Nellwyn and Pamela and realized early on these were her people. She wrote a few manuscripts, most of which suffocate in her virtual desk, and looked forward to the group’s regular meetings.
When searching for a publisher for this collection, a common response that came with various rejections was that they couldn’t see how four people could edit a book. Considering our disparate backgrounds, our disparate lives, it does seem improbable. And yet, with a seamlessness that sometimes surprises even us, we text, we work together in a shared document, we nudge and encourage and burnish this product of our collective desire to tell the world that art matters, whatever its form.
We hope that you enjoy, reflect, and hold fast to the shared conviction that each of these essays embodies: that the creative drive is essential in the truest definition of the word—for it is in our essence to create, to make and write beautiful things. Before there was commerce, before there was capitalism, before there was that thrum of judgment and exhortation to produce, there was art. Simple. Beautiful. Human.
