AT the farewell party to mark the end of this year’s International Writing Program, a wonderful woman made a joke to the 34 visiting writers, the punchline of which was that “many of us [writers] are doomed to obscurity.” I laughed, of course, because it was truly a perfectly, timed piece of comedic gold that matched the mood, setting and host of people who were present at the event. But immediately after that, my imposter syndrome kicked in and I began thinking that out of the 34, I may actually be the one most likely to be doomed to obscurity. I mean, I am from Guyana (already quite obscure to the rest of the world), a place where there is little being done to support the arts – and in my mind that was enough to convince me that my future was going to amount to nothing and I was not going to leave a long-lasting impression on the world.

I think obscurity is a fear that all artists have at some point in time. It is important to mention here that rejecting obscurity is not the same as attempting to seek fame or trying to be universally acknowledged. Artists reject obscurity because it is a cloak that veils their work from the world – and what is the purpose of the artist if not to have his/her work reach people? Every facet of the arts has to do with communication and engaging with an audience of some kind. Obscurity then is a sort of innate fear for any artist. Obscurity, because it indicates artists who are unable to meet an audience, means failure for artists.
As a writer, I previously understood evading obscurity to mean that I must work as hard as possible and do whatever it takes to get my work out to as wide an audience as possible.

In a strange way, this mission to do something, to create work that would ensures a sort of Ozymandias-like immortality through what I create, was what continuously spurred me on over many years to do my best work at university, in my plays, in my prose writing. The fear of obscurity, in other words, was great motivation for the creative process. So much so that there came a point when I forgot to actually enjoy creating, and began to enjoy the idea that whatever I did was leading me towards securing that statue of myself that would be around for a very long time after I am gone. However, over the past several weeks, I have begun to rethink the concept of obscurity and the way it is both perceived and dealt with by writers and other artists. I have learnt that if one can teach oneself to be disciplined when it comes to the creative process, and to enjoy writing and to enjoy having whatever dedicated audience is offered to you, whether it is a houseful or one person, then that is all that really matters.

If you have one follower on Instagram who avidly continues to share your Insta-poetry, then you are not obscure. You matter to that audience member. If only your family and friends come out to see your plays, then you are not obscure. Your family and friends are your audience members. If your stories only get two views online, then two people took time out of their day to read your work. If only a handful of friends keep asking to read more of your work, then your work is important to those few friends. You are not obscure in any of these cases. I have realised that, yes, it is human nature to desire more. But to desire more while ignoring what you have is nothing short of selfishness – and, of course, acknowledging what you have is an essential first step to acquiring more.
I guess one of my main epiphanies now is that every artist fears obscurity, but what we should really fear is selfishness and the rejection of people and of an audience that we have while chasing one that we may never get. The fear of obscurity is a double-edged sword that we must be wary of. It drives us to do our best, but on that journey there lies the potential to lose sight of so many other important things.