This I do for myself
It’s that time of year again. To any Muslims out there, I say Mubarak Ramadan. As Syria grinds to a halt in observance of this, the holiest month of the Muslim calendar, I find myself with the rare opportunity to breathe and collect my thoughts. Somewhere in between the breathing and collecting I’ve managed to peek at my emails, which were uniformly concerned at the lack of updates on this blog. I suppose I have been a bit neglectful.
I suppose it’s only now dawning upon me why so many professional writers advocate the utter surrender of any other professional designs a would-be writer might have. Unless you’re an apathetic nine-to-fiver with no aspirations of ever ascending the corporate ladder, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to pursue a dayjob and write as well – at least not to any significant extent.
That means that I’ve been very busy with my not-so-secret business venture. To shed some light on what can be taking so much time, in addition to setting up and managing a home- and office maintenance company, I’m currently involved in a number of training courses, working as an instructor across Syria. In fact, I just got back from the north of Syria and in about a week’s time I’m heading out there again for some more courses.
Naturally it’s an exciting time for me professionally, and I’m learning more than I could ever have hoped to do elsewhere. Not just about business mind you, but people, life, religion and everything in between. Syria’s diversity extends beyond its geographical demeanor and only truly reveals itself when you allow yourself to be immersed in her kaleidoscopic nature.
That does come at a price, as mentioned. I simply haven’t the time to write as much as I’d like to, but one does what one must. Currently this seems the more prudent way of securing my current ‘I know I shouldn’t have material goals but I’m only human’ goals which are a flat in Damascus and another in Lattakia (lovely, vibrant city on the coast of Syria). The Spyker C8 Spyder will have to wait a bit longer, I’m afraid. Damn, that is a beautiful car, though.
In an effort at balancing the two contrasting aspects of my life, I’ve opted to write more poetry and less prose, at least as long as work continues to avalanche over my naptimes. In a somewhat redeeming turn of events, one of those was even published: The Damascene Dancer. Of course I continue to work on Saint John, but given that weekends in Syria last a whopping 24 hours (Fridays only!) I find myself straining to find the time to mellow out enough to immerse myself in the convoluted story so far.
So! Right now, I must prioritize. Oddly enough, I find myself far more practical than I’d bargained for and have opted for food over intellectual sustenance, materia over idea and cold, hard cash over lukewarm rejection slips.
Now stop emailing me! I’m alive!
Prose in G minor
I should have been a musician. I think it’s something of a blessing in disguise that I’m not, though, considering how atrocious my singing is. None the less, I think I should have been one. Explanation forthcoming.
I was reading an article recently discussing some writer’s ‘writuals’ – habits that they’ve formed over the course of the professional or not-so-professional careers. Whilst every other aspect of their daily working routines varied widely, they uniformly professed to an inability to write if they were listening to music.
I, on the other hand, cannot write in silence. I simply can’t. My obsession with musical accompaniments to my writing is so severe that I form new playlists for each writing project, whether it’s a would-be novel, a short story or even a short poem. Certain songs simply capture the feeling I get when writing about a particular character or a particular story, and I find that listening to them facilitates my ability to say what I want.
The problem is, I want to capture not only that feeling, but also the music. Melodies swim in my head as I write and I try as hard as I can to put them to words, but it’s an impossible equation. You cannot translate music to prose. Still I feel like once I can do that, I will have achieved what I want from my attempts at writing. So I try and try and try again. One of these days, I’ll succeed.
In other news, work is Hell. I apologize for all of the unanswered e-mails sitting in my inbox; I promise I will attend to them as soon as I can. Right now the venture is forking in a million directions and it’s just madness trying to keep everything under control. If we can manage it, then things should ease up soon and I can maybe, hopefully breathe again.
Unrevised therapy
It’s Thursday, which means the weekend is starting here. Don’t ask me why, but Friday is the only day Syrians have off. Seeing as how I’m a stuck-up European, I take Saturday off too so my fragile psyche doesn’t become overburdened and shatter in an orgy of workplace violence, but that’s beside the point.
It’s been a long week. The venture is coming along and we’re working on a few large projects now, which will hopefully pay off in the end. They have required a lot of time, energy and compromises however. I am finding that it is really quite impossible to do any sort of business here and maintain your integrity. I suppose it would be naive to claim that’s something unique to this region or country; I’m sure it’s the case all over the world. Here it’s just a little bit more obvious. Ironically enough, it’s the corruption that is transparent in the developing world.
That’s why I think the Endlessness means so much to me. Now, I like to think of myself as a fairly decent, if inexperienced writer. I know you don’t have much to go on at the moment, and that which is available would suggest otherwise, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. So I was thinking I’d like to add more to this admittedly ill-conceived project this weekend, and decided (against my better judgement) to read over what I’d put up so far. It’s really quite awful, I thought. It reads like a schizophrenic, pseudo-intellectual social critique with no apparent point. For a moment I thought maybe I should just stop writing it and hope that nobody saw it.
Something nagged at me, though. This is what it’s like – writing, I mean. You write horrible tripe at first, barely legible garbage that looks as though someone vomited a mixture of Webster’s, anti-depressants and vodka. It might be shit, but at least it’s honest. You can still see the half-digested pills on the bathroom floor. In that unrevised honesty, it’s the counter-balance to the bullshit inherent to ‘getting by’ in the world – a refuge from the half-truths you swear by and promises you can’t keep.
It’s the ultimate therapy. For all the words that I cannot speak during the day I find vindication in writing. I know it doesn’t excuse it, but it sure as hell helps me cope.
Irons in the fire
My apologies for the lack of substantial updates – since the news of my exemption from the Finnish army, things have kicked into over-drive around here. Every day I’m faced with a new idea or project, all of which sound terribly promising but put together portent a lifetime’s worth of work. Hopefully it’ll quiet down a bit in the fall.
In the meantime, I’ve made a curious observation about the novel which I’ve been writing during my ‘off-hours’, such as they are. I started it just to keep writing while working, setting Saint John aside as it really does require copious amounts of research and fact-checking: things I have neither the time nor the energy to do these days. Anyway, the off-hours project has slowly but surely been growing in the wee hours after I’ve declared my intent to sleep and the inevitable dreamless hours that follow. The other day I had some time to myself in the office and thought to read it over while properly awake.
It’s an awful lot like the would-be novel I tried to write ten years ago. The novel that I desperately wanted to write, but didn’t know how. The novel I thought would communicate whatever it was that I felt was so terribly important that it had to be shared with the world.
Is that a sign? Is that message still lingering somewhere inside me, looking for ways to escape the confines of my admittedly muddled mind? Thinking about this made me think of something else which I’ve often wondered about, but never really knew how to ask: is there one ‘ultimate’ novel in every writer? This novel – whatever it is – nags at me in the hours when I’m too tired to argue with it. I’ve ignored it for a decade for lack of technical skill, ambition and yes, for lack of courage. Now it’s back.
I think it’s something I need to write. I don’t know if it’s any good. Hell, I don’t even know what it is. It’s a difficult feeling to describe; I don’t really know what’s going to happen until I set my fingers to the keyboard and allow them to explain it to me. When I finish for a night, I have to read back to realize what it is I’ve just written. I remember feeling similarly about some poems which I’d written years before I understood them – as if somehow my subconscious had grasped what I’d been trying to say, but my conscious mind had lacked the faculties to translate the images and symbols.
I’m probably sounding very loony at the moment, so I’ll wrap this up after one last point. As I thought about this terribly-important-and-probably-terribly-terrible novel and what it means to me, all of the whining I’ve done about the publishing industry etc lurked behind a shadowy corner of my brain.
It wouldn’t really feel right, would it? If it’s something I feel I need to share, then why the hell should anyone else have anything to say about it? We(would-be writers) get so caught up in the world of publishing, agents and editors that I think we often lose sight of what this is all about; getting your words out to the world. For better or worse, that’s what we’re all in this for. To tell the world whatever it is we feel we have to say.
So, I’ll be ‘publishing’ it here on this blog as I write it, chapter by chapter. It might be great, it might be horrible – I don’t know. I’m not looking for advice, writing hints or helpful tips – it’s just something I want to say. I have the day off tomorrow, so I’ll throw what I have so far up then and continue updating it as I can.
Release
I’m sorry to say that there will be no bitterness or derogatory remarks in this post. This is mostly because this post is not about writing; instead it is a self-congratulatory post and a general notice to those among you who are aware of certain specific details of my life. Should someone find this interesting despite not being part of that crowd, I must express a sincere concern for your lack of hobbies.
My announcement is simple: I have been exempted from military service. This means that I do not have to pack my bags in one month’s time and interrupt everything…again…but can remain in Syria, work on the business and the novel until the cows come home. Or until Finland goes to war, in which case the Finnish government reserves the right to draft me for cannon-fodder duty.
Insert joyously frolicking emoticons here.
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!
Poe’s woes
On occasion Finnish newspapers trickle through the diplomatic courier mail, eventually making their way to my desk. They’re not very interesting, but they do provide a slightly delayed view of what has happened in my home country. Fortunately for anyone reading this, I won’t share the details of Finnish current events because to be perfectly frank, it’s a terribly boring place full of depressing people.
Instead I want to write about an article I read in a paper last night. The article was a sort of retrospective review of Edgar Allan Poe’s only published novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. The reviewer naturally praised Poe’s mastery of the short story format, but went on to remark how Poe’s novel was so stylistically inconsistent and generally incoherent that it would never have been published had it been submitted today.
Granted, Poe himself called the novel a mistake and a joke, but despite that, it reminded me of another article I read, where an author slightly altered Jane Austen’s works including her landmark novel, Pride and Prejudice and submitted them to a number of publishers. Not only were none of the submissions considered for publication, but apparently only one of the publishers caught the flagrant plagiarism. I should note for those not interested in clicking the link, that the novels were submitted only to prove a point.
These are, of course, only two examples, but significant because they reference two of the most celebrated writers of all time.
As a writer hoping to one day be published, articles like these naturally discourage me. If Poe or Austen couldn’t get published today, what chance do I have? Such is the nature of the beast; when you spend so much time isolated from the rest of the world, you end up thinking only of yourself. But let’s expand this a little. Let’s look at what these articles are saying one more time.
Edgar Allan Poe and Jane Austen wouldn’t get published today.
Edgar Allan Poe. Jane Austen. I’m pretty sure if Dostoevsky submitted Crime and Punishment to an editor, it’d come back with a letter requesting a more specific genre and more involving dialog in the first two pages. I am relatively certain that Fowles’ attempts at peddling The Magus would end in tears and demands for less linguistic posturing and more action. I am positive that Bulgakov would end up drowning in form letters informing him that Random Publisher X is not looking for the sort of insane shit to be found in Master and Margarita.
How much great literature is being lost because of the publishing industry? How many novels that would have inspired generations have been tossed in the bin, abandoned in antiquated hard drives or burned symbolically because of the dollar-driven motivations of the industry that supervises what is or isn’t worth publishing?
Of course, this is only tapping the issue of what doesn’t get published that potentially should. What about all that which does please the blinkered representatives of the omnipotent publishing industry? Their works are torn this way and that, rearranged and reorganized until whatever resemblance they once bore to the original work is superficial at best. How many lives are you willing to destroy to please your demographic, you ravenous beast of an industry?! Insert a shaking fist here, if it helps you understand my melodramatic intent better.
I suppose it’s a bit one-sided to say that the publishing industry is solely to blame, however. Of course they have to make money, otherwise they can’t stay afloat and keep publishing books. Of course this isn’t a new phenomenon, books have been rejected by publishers since the printing press was invented. As I mentioned in the previous post, this is a business, after all – businesses have to make money.
Perhaps we are to blame. Perhaps it’s all of us, harboring delusions of literary grandeur who have pushed the industry to their current standards. Perhaps it’s every Tom, Dick and Harry writing a novel and shoving it into every available agent’s inbox that has made the selection process so time-consuming that they’ve no choice but to abide by those standards. Hey, I can understand that. I think there’s a whole lot of shit out there that shouldn’t have been published. I wonder if one day someone will come up with a calculation for how much meaningful writing has been lost to the droves of urban fantasy writers taking valuable publishing quotas? Yes, I really hate urban fantasy. It’s a stupid fucking genre and people who write it should have their breathing licenses revoked. It’s never too late for a mid-life abortion.
But hey! That’s a whole other rant, and for all my vitriolic posturing I recognize that there are people out there who enjoy it. I don’t, but then I’m a giant prick who doesn’t enjoy a whole hell of a lot that doesn’t have oodles of nicotine, caffeine or sex in it. I’m sure there are people out there who feel equally wronged by historical fiction(blasphemers!).
Perhaps it is people like me, though. I’ll eventually finish my book and send it off. I’ll probably end up sending it to a lot of different people before getting an answer I like, or alternately getting enough recommendations to eat my crappy manuscript that I’ll oblige such a request. Perhaps it’s people like me. Perhaps it’s people like you. Like us.
Perhaps more of us should get off our self-aggrandizing asses and get a real job. Perhaps more of us should just stop. Stop writing. Stop dreaming.
Or perhaps, somewhere along the way, the world lost the plot. Who the fuck is writing it, anyway?
I bet it’s some urban fantasy writer.
A cure for compulsion
Have you ever taken a look at the amount of self-help literature available to writers? Whether on the internet, in bookstores or in your local daily paper, it seems you can’t bend over without having someone shove a compendium of writing do’s and don’ts in your face. As an avid surfer(of the world wide web) I barely manage to sneak into my e-mail inbox before being bombarded by some asinine twat and his patented 12 step guide to literary immortality.
I’ll confess: I’ve read a few of them.
Of course I have. Who doesn’t have doubts when they’re starting out? I don’t claim to know any more about this whole writing gig than the next schmuck. I haven’t taken a creative writing class since high school, for God’s sake. I haven’t had “face time” with any successful authors. I’ve never sat in a circle with other writers discussing our respective work. I’m flying blind out here. It’s a pretty scary prospect. After all, it is a very competetive field.
More than that, it’s a business. As with all businesses, there are rules. There are do’s and don’ts. There are accepted methods, tried-and-true models and professionals. There has to be; writing is a money-making endeavor. There’s a lot of money on the move. Just look at J.K. Rowling and her fifty thousand billion hundred million dollars. Make no mistake, writing is a business.
But should it be? Of course it is, but should it be? Has it really come to this? To lectures on how to submit your manuscript, to ‘ways to optimize your chances’, to self-indulgent self-help guides? To do’s and don’ts? To checklists and submission rules, to diplomas in creative writing, to support groups for those that don’t make it?
I know I’m new at this. I know I’m naive about the realities of writing. I don’t know how to write a novel in 12 steps. I don’t know what constitutes an ‘engaging and interesting’ beginning, which is apparently all agents and publishers read these days. I don’t know how to balance my narrative. I have a minor stroke every night as I reflect on all that I don’t know. And you know what? I’m glad.
Don’t get me wrong; of course I want to succeed. Who doesn’t? I want to write a great novel and have it sell a trillion copies. I want to out-sell the Bible. I want to write the new Bible. But I’m glad I don’t know what to do and what not do, because God knows that enough of life is restricted by rules and guidelines without having to worry about what someone arbitrarily assigned as the acceptable norms of ‘creative’ writing. If you want more action in the first chapter, then you fucking write it.
As long as I’m pissing and moaning, I’ll add something else I hate. I hate restrictions on blogging. I hate that I shouldn’t write about something I don’t like, because it creates a ‘negative image’. “People respond poorly to negativity”, they say. So fucking what? Should I only write about how the garden is blooming during this lovely Damascene summer(it is quite nice, actually)? Whatever happened to writers being regularly institutionalized assholes nobody but their masochistic spouses can stand?
Just so that we’re clear, I think a lot of the literature floating around out there is complete and utter shit. I think you could pretty safely burn 90% of the books published each year and not lose any significant contributions to the world. Should a novel of my own writing ever be released into the wild, I’m sure you could add that to the pile. I think every single urban fantasy novel in the world should be shoved down their authors’ throats while on fire. I think anything sold in an airport bookstore should be dropped from 30,000 feet with the rest of the ejected waste product. I hope the lot falls on an urban fantasy writer’s home and breaks their pink Macbook.
I hate people who think that saying that you hate something means that there’s something wrong. “Hate is such a strong word,” they say. Okay. And? Why shouldn’t I be allowed to feel strongly about something? Why should I have to tip-toe around the things I ‘really don’t quite agree with completely’ when I could just be honest with you and tell you I hate them? It’s not like I hate babies or puppies. I actually quite like puppies.
I hate people like me, who make such a big stink about being ‘writers’ when they’re just another Joe behind a keyboard with delusions of grandeur. In fact, I think I’ll stop now.
And yes, I do feel better now.
