My Muse is Discordia
I rag on the publishing industry a lot in this blog. Hell I rag on just about everything a lot in this blog. So far I haven’t ragged on writers so much, aside from exposing my own personal neuroses and letting you draw your own conclusions about what sorts of people so-called creative writing creates. So then. Here we go.
Somehow the notion of saying ‘maybe not everyone is supposed to write’ seems taboo. Like voicing such an opinion condemns your own efforts at ‘making it’, because hell – nobody is born a star. Some of the greatest writing has come from the unlikeliest of places. How do you judge something as subjective as creative writing in the first place? It’s art, man.
Yeah, that may be the case. Maybe everyone can be a writer. Maybe all of our creative writing teachers are right to say ‘keep at it, you’ll make it one day’. Maybe dreams can really come true for all of us. Maybe everyone with a laptop and a copy of Microsoft Word will one day be a multi-millionaire sipping pool-side cocktails. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.
WordPress and similar blogging sites are the worst thing to happen to writing in a long, long time. I know, I know; I’ve got my own little corner of it so it’s very hypocritical and all that. Shut up. That’s not what I mean.
Any aspiring writer who starts his or her own blog here will at some point or the other peruse other would-be writers’ blogs. I think that’s a pretty defining moment in a modern writer’s life. Here’s my opinion on what you can surmise about yourself based on your reaction to the first five ‘writing blogs’ you see:
Option 1: “Oh wow, there are other people like me out there! This is so great, I think I’ll join a dozen communities and plaster my blog with cutesy buttons to showcase my support for struggling writers regardless of whether or not they should be breathing, let alone polluting the internet with the textual dribble they claim is fiction. Then I’ll post an excerpt from my ‘funny yet poignant’ novel and ask people to comment on my seventeen run-on sentences and unimaginative symbolism! Yay!”
Option 2: “Jesus fucking Christ these people are idiots. This writing is horrible. I want to die.”
If you chose option 1, you should put all of those ‘great effort, keep at it!’ notes your high-school teacher gave you to good use and inflict enough paper-cuts to repent. Should you bleed to death in the process, your life is an acceptable loss. We’ll miss you. Well I won’t, but I’m sure someone will.
If you chose option 2, chances are you’re a lot like me – a talentless hack looking for a way to express your general discontentment to the world rather than an opportunity to genuinely contribute to human society. I’d advise similarly self-destructive activities as in option 1, but since I like myself I’ll just prescribe a good night’s sleep and a paying dayjob.
If you had an original thought – or better yet, if you haven’t been sucked into this pretend-writers’ virtual playfield in the first place – then maybe you’ve got it in you to write something worth a damn. Seriously, my point is this; encouraging people is great provided they should be encouraged. There are a lot of people out there writing absolute tripe, spending years chasing a dream that will never come true because they’re just awful writers. Plain and simple.
The other day I stumbled upon a blog about writing which was in fact a blog about writing a blog. The author complained of suffering from writer’s block – in regards to the blog! It’s not that the author couldn’t think of the next line for their novel, or they couldn’t nail the rhythm of their latest poem – this author had no such projects in mind at all. They were blocked about what to blog about.
Have we really started to believe this shit? That you can ‘be a writer’ by doing nothing more than posting an update here and there, ranting and raving about whatever? Why the hell does everyone want to be one, anyway? Is there some notion flying around out there that writers lead glamorous lives living off the enormous royalties their mid-list sellers garner? Be a writer; it’s like being Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie without the paparazzi!
Wake up and smell the fucking mortgage. If there is anything in your life you would rather do – anything at all – then maybe you should think twice before spending the next 1 – 50 years opening rejection letters and borrowing money from your parents. Writers aren’t rockstars, no matter how much Neil Gaiman tries to look like one.
Monopoly of thought
When perusing blogs about writing, you’ll inevitably stumble upon posts about the injustices perpetrated by the publishing industry. Granted, many of those aren’t necessarily warranted – it could be the writer in question is just bloody awful, ignorant of the publishing industry or just a giant prick like myself. Still, a trillion unpublished writers can’t all be wrong. Something is rotten in the state of Random House.
I mean, for a publishing company named Random House, their selection of material is anything but random. Obviously the publishing industry isn’t limited to them – every publisher wants the next Harry Potter, not some twat’s 800-page manifesto on the nature of narcissism. Problem is, if you happen to be the twat writing that manifesto, the scenery is pretty bleak and depressing.
What about other avenues? As I previously mentioned, I’m a big fan of Trent Reznor. It’s not just his music I enjoy, I think he’s got a great deal of integrity as well. Before releasing The Slip for free, Reznor broke from traditional record publishers and published Ghosts I-IV on the internet. Cutting away the middle man and production costs of printing and publishing CDs, you can buy the whole album for anywhere from $5 to $300 depending on how much additional shit you want – or just download the first 9 tracks for free. Click the link or the picture below to go buy your own copy.
Granted, The Slip being Nine Inch Nails’ 27th release, Reznor doesn’t exactly have to worry about the money anymore; a career that long is bound to have produced a penny or two for those rainy days. The apparent success story of Ghosts I-IV(which made $1.6 million in the first week of release) despite the widespread piracy of the album isn’t as resounding an affirmation to the benefits of such liberal distribution methods as one might think; Nine Inch Nails has a rabid fanbase who would sell their souls to get the latest release. Smaller bands attempting to emulate Ghosts I-IV’s success would likely be in for a rude awakening.
Regardless, it’s interesting to dwell on the notion of alternative means of publishing. In the music industry, Radiohead and NIN are spearheading an increasingly popular(to the fans) move away from traditional record labels. Given that we live in a time of exponentially developing technological means, why hasn’t the publishing industry gone the way of the dinosaur?
Self-publishing works about as well in the literary world as it does in the music world. It’s expensive to print out physical copies of your book and the end result often ends up looking amateurish. Aside from the odd success tale which owes more to opportune movie deals than genuinely great writing, there hasn’t been much to motivate aspiring writers to take on the prohibitive costs of self-publishing.
Electronic publishing is another alternative of course, but there’s no mp3 equivalent in the field of literature. Music is intangible by nature and infinitely better suited to an electronic media. I personally can’t imagine reading books electronically, though some of the new e-readers do look tempting.
So maybe these alternatives aren’t optimal. They’re still alternatives – if all writers do is bitch about the publishing industry, why don’t they do something about it? Why aren’t they exploiting these alternatives and carving a path away from the traditional powerhouses of the industry?
The answer is simple – it’s not a question of risk analysis, cost efficiency or even of how many copies you can afford to publish by yourself. It’s a question of marketing. Without a publisher, you quite simply cannot reach a sufficiently large audience to make writing a viable means of sustaining yourself.
A publisher doesn’t just print your book, they let the world know it’s there. There is such a plethora of novels being published annually that no one can possibly know which ones most deserve your hard-earned $8.99. A publisher uses its network of editors, marketers and corporate partners to make sure your novel gets out there, is heard about and reviewed. It’s the marketing people who drive the publishing industry, who tell consumers what they need to read and who make sure that the books they’ve invested time into sell. Considering they’re able to sell all sorts of shit to people, it’s no wonder the marketers of the publishing industry are so keen to stay where they are:
Indeed, whether they begin their career in publishing or not, the industry seems to be a relatively happy place for most with the exception of an agent who says “every sale I make is like getting a root canal.” Just about a third (32%) “never” consider leaving and another 18.5% feel like throwing in the towel only when the season changes. The department with the fewest flight fantasies is marketing. Almost half (45.5%) “never” consider leaving the publishing industry and 44.1% report their departmental choice is “a perfect fit!”
What does this mean for those of us whose samples or completed works are deemed unsellable? We’re shit out of luck. No marketing means no sales. No sales means no income. No income means get thee to a fucking dayjob, you cross-eyed, basement-dwelling hack.
I wonder how some of the various best-seller lists would look like if there was no such thing as marketing. If there were no advertisements, no brands, no merchandise, promotional freebies or arranged interviews on daytime talk-shows. I’ve got a feeling they’d look a hell of a lot different than this.
Rise and flicker
I’ve discovered another aspect of ‘being a writer’ that I really miss. Allow me to explain with a brief example:
Friend of friend: So are we ready to go yet?
Friend: Everyone except Oliver.
Friend of friend: Why, where’s he?
Friend: Sleeping.
Friend of friend: It’s 2 pm!
Friend: He’s a writer.
Friend of friend: Oh. Nevermind then.
For reasons beyond me(and ones I choose not to explore out of hedonistic self-preservation), it seems that writers are allowed completely alien mannerisms. It’s the ultimate green light. No matter how bizarre or perverse your activities are, tossing the phrase “I’m a writer” around will inevitably elicit reluctant nods of approval from the understanding, if slightly disturbed standers-by.
Once this ‘real work’ gig is over I am going to exploit that aspect of writing to its fullest. Why wallow in my self-inflicted, pseudo-artistic misery in some darkened room when I can share it with the world and suffer no particular consequence? What are they going to say; I’m insane? That’s a fucking plus in my books, buddy.
So far I’ve thought of nailing stray cats to the the doors of any conveniently near-by PETA offices, rolling around naked in feces and subsequently running around yelling “I am the personification of urban fantasy”, putting on a street performance act entitled Nailgun Meets Your Face in a crowded subway and ordering from the breakfast menu at McDonald’s at lunchtime.
Before I get there though, I have to face reality. It’s grim. Someone knows just what I need:
I need your discipline
I need your help
I need your discipline
You know once I start I cannot help myself
-Discipline by Nine Inch Nails
Trent Reznor, one of the few people whom I am genuinely “oh my gawd sign my tits” about, has released the latest Nine Inch Nails album free. Click on the below image to download your own copy of The Slip. The quoted track and album aside, discipline is precisely what I need. I think I’m getting there though – despite my nocturnal habits, the prospect of money does a damn fine job of waking me up each morning. Or was it coffee?
Parallel universes
It’s midnight in Damascus. I could be asleep, but I’m not. I probably should be asleep, but I’m not. Instead I’m working on the nth meeting agenda for a business venture which would be promising if people would just let me handle…well, everything. Suddenly the cellphone perpetually adorning my nightstand begins an irritating loop of beeps which I’ve come to loathe. The undecipherable melody has lost whatever appeal it had when I opted for it as my ring-tone, having long since transformed into a theme song for interruption. I look at the screen to identify my late-night harasser; it’s one of my partners. I answer the call.
According to my cellphone’s built-in “here’s how much time you just wasted” tracker, it took exactly three minutes and twelve seconds to make five solid days’ work obsolete. The company brochure draft, completed website text, service profiling and logistics schematics I’d drawn up had just been tossed out the window by one simple change: we’re completely renewing our company profile.
I contemplated getting angry or at the very least mildly depressed. Instead I saved the file I was working on even though I’d have to rewrite the whole thing. Setting the finished work aside in the vain hope that one day it might come in handy, a thought occurs to me.
This is surprisingly like writing.
How many times could I have finished a novel with some more discipline? If instead of waiting for inspiration or agonizing over details, if I’d only focused on the task at hand I probably would’ve finished Saint John by now. Chances are I’d have finished another novel too.
It’s a bit of a contrived analogy, of course. Business is rational and logical. Writing is emotional and neurotic. That aside, working with a bunch of idea-driven improvisers is providing me with a valuable lesson: there’s no substitute for focus. Take an idea, squeeze its balls until it cries uncle and drag it to the finish line.
It’s ironic how focused I’ve been with this business venture in contrast with how absolutely chaotic my writing process is. Ultimately I can see a lot of parallels; a company profile is a lot like a synopsis, an explanation of not only the contents but also the purpose. It should give a clear idea as to what you’re selling and why you’re selling it. It should also be the first thing you do.
From there you move ahead one step at a time, laying the brickwork for the eventual launch. There’s no fast-forwarding involved, no fucking around with a new idea when you’ve already decided on one. You don’t stop to examine every little inconsequential detail unless it’s somehow relevant to the basic steps you need to take to ensure that you achieve whatever you’ve set out to do by whatever deadline you’re working under.
It sounds so simple. In this scenario, it is so simple. I’m working far longer hours and far harder in general, yet I feel none of the exhaustion and general despair I do when writing. What’s so different? Is it just that writing is innately such a creative and emotionally draining process that it sucks the very life out of me? Or have I just fooled myself into thinking that it’s somehow a ‘higher’ pursuit, that writing shouldn’t be easy? Maybe it’s the fault of other writers – if they weren’t usually such insufferable cunts, I might have had more pleasant preconceived notions about writing and being a writer.
Obviously I don’t know the answer. Kallioppe left a good comment on the subject of the ill effects of writing on my previous post, specifically regarding its 24/7 nature. It’s true, when you write, you write all the time. Especially when you’re not writing. You can’t escape your writing or the fact that, like it or not, you are a writer. Published or not, it’s what you do. There’s a curious mixture of entitlement and discontentment that grips you from the moment you decide to write in earnest, as if something leaps up from inside you and beats the ever-loving shit out of your insides to give you an idea as to how bruised you should be feeling. Because, you know, you’re a writer. You’re supposed to be all sorts of messed up.
I wonder if that’s some sort of a sign. That feeling so strongly about something, even if it affects you negatively and turns you into a verbally abusive sociopath, means that you were meant to do it. I’d like to think it does, but then again that might be because I just really like writing. I like a lot of things about it, and to list them all here would be impossible. I will tell you one thing I like about it however, which I didn’t even realize I liked about it until tonight.
Nobody calls me up at midnight to tell me to change my synopsis.
Stop the press
Sometimes, an opportunity comes along that’s too good to pass up. Even if it temporarily displaces your dreams and puts you in a period of uncertainty, the potential rewards of some gambles are too great to not toss the dice. That’s my roundabout way of saying that I’ve momentarily placed my writing on hold in favor of pursuing a business venture. I won’t go into great details regarding the venture as I’m a relatively superstitious man and would prefer not to jinx it by spilling the beans.
I’ll be frank and admit that it’s not something I was very keen on participating in, mostly because I am the epitome of lethargy and loathe to assume personal responsibility for anything. That said, I think I’d regret not giving this a go more than I would taking a break from the novel to pursue it. I’m not investing anything other than my time, so it’s not like I’m putting myself in financial jeopardy(what finances?) here.
Also, my writing just hasn’t been up to par lately. I’m not sure if it’s a case of growing momentarily tired of the novel(happens to us all, I’d wager) or the uncertainty of my situation(writing doesn’t pay for itself until after you succeed at wrestling a huge advance) but I believe a brief break might be the best thing for both myself and the novel.
That said, I’ll continue to post updates on the blog whenever I can, if not about the novel then about my persistent hatred of urban fantasy. Once the initial flurry of activity is over(2-3 weeks), I’ll have time to pick the novel up again. In the meantime, my spare time will be very limited indeed, so my apologies for the lack of updates!
The professional amateur
Set the beat so they will buy it
If there’s a hook they can’t deny it
Sing about love so they can feel it
Sing about love so they can sing it
Sing it-”Catch Without Arms” by Dredg
It seems to me that every budding writer in the blogosphere is determined to undermine my credibility by appearing incredibly calm, collected and professional. Their blogs are full of remarkably rational updates on their progress and objective thoughts on their projects in general. Then there are those which inform their readers of the author’s love for kittens, or this really funny conversation they had with their friend about how greasy hamburgers are. Those blogs don’t make me feel all that inadequate, but they do make me cry a little.
It seems to me that either I am incredibly poorly equipped to deal with the emotional vampirism of writing a novel, or everyone else is full of shit. I’m going to go with the latter, because I’m loathe to admit my own faults and abusing others is more fun anyway.
Some six or seven months ago, I came up with a mission statement which I pretentiously called a ‘self-employment contract‘. Basically I laid out a plan with which I was to complete my novel by a relatively arbitrary deadline. Write X hours a day, Y days a week and so forth. Sounds reasonable, right? WRONG.
The thing is, writing isn’t professional. A professional writer, by definition, is a writer who gets paid to write. That’s it. There’s no bloody uniform or code of conduct. You can pretend to be in an office and you can pretend that the .doc file in front of you is just another progress report, but that will never be the case. Well, unless you’re writing urban fantasy, in which case you should pretend the .doc file in front of you is a steaming pile of binary shit.
Some days it just doesn’t fly. Some weeks it just doesn’t fly. I’ve been sitting down in the exact same spot as I did when writing came easily in an effort to catch that elusive gnat of inspiration for the better part of a week. Aside from an e-mail or two, I’ve managed to write nothing.
Yeah, I know about writing prompts. I know about ‘writuals’. I know about all the gimmicks. They don’t really count for anything when you’re suffering from literary constipation. At times like these, you long for someone else in a similar situation. You want to hear that you’re not the only one. Instead, all you get is a list of bubbly assholes posting word counts and how their NaNoWriMo novels are taking shape.
Whatever happened to the writers who drank themselves stupid and started fights with innocent bartenders to vent their frustrations? The writers who packed their veins with near-lethal narcotic doses in desperation? The poor bastards who went on whoring rampages and ended up writing about the bitch who gave them twelve different STDs?
I’m not saying those are particularly appealing options for me. I like the quiet life, and I leave such outlets for my more adventurous peers. I would like to read about them, though. It’d be nice to know that there are still people out there for whom writing is a passion, not a Sunday hobby quantified by the word count of their vampire detective’s adventures.
It’s not professional. It will never be professional. There’s no manual or guidebook for this. It’s an unholy clusterfuck of imagination and reality. Embrace your inner lunatic and let him guide you down that twisted path.
That’s what happens when you play catch without arms
It’s what sets, sets, sets us apart
That’s what happens when you compromise your art
It’s what sets, sets, sets apart-”Catch Without Arms” by Dredg
Postcards from Mars
It’s been a slow couple of days – I know what I want to write, but I’m still working on how to get it to read like it sounds in my head. I have made progress in less concrete areas, however – for one, I’ve come to terms with just how insignificant a measure of progress a novel’s word count really is. Thus far I’ve managed to crank out up to 15,000 words in a single sitting, most of which is now looking like it might be chucked out completely before I’m finished with this novel.
It’s not that the text is bad or I don’t want to include it, it’s just that I fear I may have set too ambitious a level of detail for the novel. If it’s going to extend from my main protagonist’s birth in 1165 to Salah ad-Din’s siege of Krak des Chevaliers in 1188, then I quite simply cannot delve as deeply into my various characters’ backgrounds as I have done. The novel would be at least a thousand pages long.
I may not be too impressed by the rules and regulations of first-time writers and the sorts of things they should be sending off, but I do know that no one will touch a novel that humongous from a newbie. God knows I wouldn’t. Besides which, I’m having a hard enough time keeping a few hundred pages coherent. So I’m going to have to rethink my structure at some point. I’m not too bothered by it though, because as I’ve mentioned I think I’ve come to grips with the notion of a first draft being a very rough block of clay which will eventually be formed into something less elementary.
Were I less cynical or more inclined to spew out Oprah-style catchphrases, I’d say I’ve learned to forgive myself for the mistakes I make while writing. I’m not though, so I’ll just say that I’ve decided to postpone the time at which I start caring.
In the meantime, I wrote a short poem to annoy everyone with. Here it is; A Martian Wish.
I want a girl with bedroom eyes,
with ample cleavage and soft-skinned thighs.
I want a girl like that:
without an ounce of fat
and I want her for her mind.
That’s all I got today, I hope everyone had a good international worker’s day or whatnot, I did my part by buying some new glasses(huzzah for Syrian prices) and subsequently perfecting new dramatic facial expressions to accompany them. Right, well, at least I didn’t hurt the proletariat’s efforts.
