On the Value of Good Faith
Entering Creative Conversations with Integrity
Of all that we have lost in the chaos of this past decade, of all that seems to have fallen away, what concerns me most is a lack of good faith in our communication with each other.
That value–good faith–binds a community through trust in the common good. We form it every day through the integrity of our choices; each one of us has an instrumental part to play in its ongoing creation.
If we promise to do our level best, to arrive with an open heart and a clear mind and do the work we’re meant to do, then the work gets done, and we receive the care we need to get up and do it all again tomorrow.
This is a secular faith, one that does not rest on the belief of any particular god or dogma, but rather a belief in one another, in the fragile strength of our shared humanity.
I trust that you mean what you say because I say what I mean; I mean what I say because I believe in our purpose. I trust in this shared purpose because we’re all in this together, despite superficial differences. Beyond the surface, this line of thinking goes, we are One.
Without the value of good faith, we’re far less likely to express ourselves authentically, which, in turn, makes us feel less connected, less certain of each other, a spiraling, gyrating Catch-22, a condition we seem to accept as reality now.
The loss of good faith is particularly troublesome in relation to creative conversations, the talk amongst artists and writers, poets and painters, the awakened dreamers among us who help us all make sense of this strange-sometimes fantastic, sometimes brutal–human experience.
What has eclipsed this value is a sharp elbowed competition, a striving drive to prove one’s mettle and wit against the other. This is a version of King of the Mountain, a game of verbal combat and psychological posturing where only one individual can win. To suggest it is antithetical to artistic freedom is understatement.
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And yet, creative conversations remain crucial.
So much of art is composed in solitude; reaching out for kindred connection offers a lifeline, a spark in the dark. Given the rampant hostility in the outside world, the nourishment of these communal spaces is urgent. And yet…
Recently, I participated in a creative conversation in which this lack of good faith reared its ugly head. Five writers, including myself, were matched through a beta reading program by genre; in this case, historical fiction. We each received the opening 3,000 words of the others’ works in progress. Since we are all in the same boat, the hope for some external validation along with helpful criticism was the ostensible contract we had struck with each other.
The rules of engagement in a writer’s group differ slightly, but a few tenets remain consistent: start with what is working and offer criticism in response to questions the author has asked.
In other words, the conversational rules imply that isn’t the time for an elaboration of personal preference, but rather for engagement with the world the author has crafted. The goal is to honor the intention to help the writer hone how it lands. During the discourse, the writer remains quiet to listen with equanimity and resist the impulsive urge to defend one’s work. And yet…
In this particular conversation, another writer’s introductory comment to my chapter went something like this: “This is 2025. Do we really need to still be talking about witches?” (My book is a retelling of the Salem trials from an alternative perspective.) This particular writer is working on a retelling of a Shakespeare tragedy, so that question, if valid, would apply equally to their work. But, of course, it’s not a valid question. Its purpose was to rock the foundation on which I had built my project. A competitive strike, one intended to dissuade and discourage.
The next respondent also skipped the part where you note what is working and went straight for the jugular. The form my novel takes is a diary; necessarily, then, it explores the lived experience of a single character, an evocation of consciousness through first person perspective. While the charge of “navel-gazing” may be valid if applied to specific passages within a diary, it is not helpful as an overarching comment given the form I chose.
In particular, this writer mentioned a phrase, “unrestful slumber.” A passive, weak choice. Who cares about sleeping? How boring!
Never mind that the phrase introduced the character’s nightmare, offering a description of tangible environmental fears, the “howling wilderness” of Salem circa 1690. I recognize the strategy: cherry pick in order to pick apart. Again, a competitive strike, one meant to dissuade and discourage.
I spent several hours after this meeting working through frustration and disappointment, not that others responded negatively to my work per se, though that did sting a bit, but rather that I had entered into the conversation in trust of a good faith agreement, but was not met with it in return.
As creative individuals, we do not owe each other praise or even allegiance, but we do owe each other this: to uphold good faith values and enter creative conversations with integrity.
