Why do writers lack conviction?

Sandycove, Ireland 2017

On some days the words land just right, and all you can do is nod along. Consider these two lines from W. B. Yeats’ The Second Coming:

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Most claims require evidence, or at least need to percolate a bit before they’re accepted. With these lines, however, we have a simple claim, articulated in one breath, which expresses an obvious yet unspoken truth. Whether you’re reading at the publication date in 1920, or for the first time just now, surely your reaction is predictable: Yes, yes, that’s true. We have a sentiment which is universally recognized: applicable back then, right now, and tomorrow.

Politics and apocalypse provides the context for Yeats’ twenty-two line poem, which was written in the shadow of the first World War.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

Perhaps there’s never a time when the center—define it however you like—seems likely to hold. But if we leave the political, does the line about conviction still strike? Does it work for the playground? In the office? During the cocktail hour? Is the general principle that the best always lack conviction?

Similar quotes about conviction have been attributed to Bertrand Russell and Charles Bukowski—which makes, admittedly, a rather odd trio. Of course the repetition of this sentiment must point to a truth that at least some suspect. And note that each figure here is first a writer. We have Yeats the poet; Russell the philosopher; and Bukowski—surely the trickiest to classify—as, well, the novelist and essayist.

Confidence is a good subject for writers, especially because most writers consider it an elusive sensation. Spending your day scribbling lines doesn’t seem to promote confidence, and perhaps that’s because good writing lives in nuance, in shades of gray, in complexity—these aren’t the homes to occupy if you need buttressing. To ruminate endlessly about ambiguity isn’t the typical path toward confidence. And the stereotype of the neurotic, timid writer surprises few people; the major exceptions—Norman Mailer, Oriana Fallaci, for instance—merely reenforce the rule with their oddity.

Fighting late into the night with a page will always be a curious way to spend your time. There’s no hope for perfection, and tomorrow’s draft always reveals what’s missing: the clumsy words, unwritten lines, misplaced asides. A certain low-level brooding is the only real guarantee. Strike one word, add another, edit a paragraph, permit yourself a slight smile at an unexpected phrase, then repeat it all again tomorrow—it’s not the recipe for conviction.

And that contrasts with the “passionate intensity” of those we call “the worst”—all those people who arrive preloaded with an unshakable certainty. It’s not difficult to picture this personality: imagine anyone with a slavish, uncritical belief in their own conclusions. Wasn’t that easy? It’s the certainty of both the tyrant and the ignorant. Visible in every crowd, on most corners, without much imagination.

Fighting against this cheap certainty might be where the writer discovers conviction. The conviction might come from continuing to show up, despite knowing with certainty that perfection will always be one day away. Yesterday’s page is imperfect, while tomorrow’s page is blank, and those facts are the only real truths of writing. The game is forever rigged against perfection, yet the writer persists, which does require a sentiment we might call conviction: an eagerness to, once again, push that rock uphill.

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