An Audience of One

I’m a firm believer that if stories aren’t entertaining then they aren’t worth telling. This doesn’t mean that I crave action fests and no exposition. It doesn’t mean I desire only surface level storytelling. I don’t demand a particular kind of process in the stories I consume. But I am confident that if a story is not entertaining to some degree, then it has no basic merit.

Being entertaining doesn’t preclude being artful or intellectually fulfilling. That’s an extremely misinformed claim. It’s a poor pseudo analysis of what art is capable of giving to the world. It’s a flat, selfish notion that says entertaining art is only for the masses. The true auteur, says this person, makes art for the sake of creating it or to explore an abstract plane of thought or any other possibility that isn’t meant to be pleasing to an audience.

But I cannot agree with that sentiment. To abide by the thought annoys me as a creator. When art doesn’t have to be entertaining, when it doesn’t need to engage with an audience or a secondary figure other than the artist himself, all you get is narcissistic bunk. Instead of compelling plotlines, interesting, layered characters, and thoughtful themes, you end up with twenty minutes of surrealist nuclear explosions.

Where there’s no reason, there’s no sense. Where there’s no sense, there’s no hook. Where there’s no hook, there’s no audience. When there’s no audience, there’s nothing worth knowing. All that’s left is a delusional, self-indulgent artist with a meaningless mess of a canvas.

That’s not who I am. I care about creating my stories because I like to make them, yes, but I also don’t do them for only my own sake. I’m just as interested in hearing what others have to say. An audience of one is never enough.

In the end, if I’m the only one listening, then no one is being heard.