Friends, as a fool is allowed to speak the truth in the king’s court, I rise to address you on the subject of the inter net as saviour- of-obsure-author-syndrome. It’s a subject I’ve been giving considerable thought to these past few minutes. And so I can advise you, my fellow nautists, to beware of all hype to do with hope. My friends, it saddens though behooves me to tell you: you’re never going to make 1/100th the earnings of a bad plumber. Look at moi. My dole cheques will make me richer than my royalties. And I don’t have any royalties. On the other hand, I don’t have any dole cheques either. So there is my irrefutable logic. And the inter net. On the subject of the inter net, let me just say - screw the inter net! Screw every format that relies on a scroll button. Did Franz Kafka have an inter net? He did not. Did Van Gogh sell a picture in his lifetime? He did not. The brother doesn’t count. Now, as to economic matters, you will of course be aware of our great past president’s famous, nay, infamous, saying that it is the economy, stupid. (Though I admit it was rather course and unfeeling of him to have italicised the epithet, particularly after preceding it with a comma.) What he was saying here, in referring to his upcoming tome, which was to be entitled: US IN THE AGE OF TRANSITION: THE NEW PARADIGM OF AMERICAN POWER IN THE ERA OF TRANS GLOBAL TERRORISM AND FISCAL CHAOS – OR HOW I DUKED THE ELDER BUSH AND REINSTALLED THE LEGACY OF JIMMY CARTER (in which he also fudged at disclosing the full goss on the Lewinsky issue) – what he was saying, then, in pharasee language, actually, was: Do royalties validate writing? Which answer, if we phrase it in terms pertinant to us scribes, is: If you’re delusional! Which, let me say plainly, friends, on the subject of royalties, that that is all you know on earth, and all you need to know.
Now, I’ve been asked on many occasions to speak on the subject of readers. The peoples rightly want to know if 1 million readers are 1 million times the value of 1 reader (in qualitative terms, not quantitative, dummy!). And my answer to those with the temerity to ask this question is this: if you’re ungrateful. But I must say there is a more fundamental question at the bottom of this answer, and it is this. (I hope you’re picking up on my repetitions here.) Is writing an end in itself? To this I answer forthrightly: yes! Yes I said yes (Joyce, U, 554, Wilder Publications 2009 – terrible fucking edition, don’t get me started). Yes it is, I repeat (ad nauseum, the only way), provided you are not an idiot. Of course, we don’t live in a vacuum, I hear you say. And this is a valid point you raise. Now, the question that arises, in answer to the valid point you raise, is this: is feedback a good thing? Or, on the other hand, is it not? Well, on this question I must say that it is, but only if it doesn’t go to your head. Obviously, that goes without saying. I shouldn’t really have said it. But unconscionable padding out is another postmodern satirical trope that you will certainly be aware of. You read Pynchon et al, don’t you? What! You don’t? My respect is in awe of you. I could go about tropes and such, but I won’t. I know some fictionauts have short attention spans. Or itchy scroll fingers. So. My peoples. Here ye! Here ye! Here is the bottom line. What I have come up with after much cutting and intemperate pasting and several comma changes. I’m putting it on a line all its own.
Stop bitchin, yo? Be happy. Trust in the word.
I remain,
Yr hmbl Idiote
Before people take me wrong, the foregoing is not intended as a criticism of the writing or intentions of fellow writers, whom I have nothing but admiration for. It's just a reposte to stuff in the flash fiction thread concerning expectations some folk have of making money out of their writing. This unhealthy obsession, IMHO, with publication and sales. Peace.
"Writing as an end in itself" is an absolute, Eamon - and a foundation stone. A voice - the prophet said - crying in the wilderness. If that stone is not in place - to quote Metallica: Nothing else matters.
Thanks for the comment.
Eamon, how y'do go on. But you do it thoughtfully and well. Y'might be right concerning the hope of financial reward in today's curious cultural mix.
When I started writing in the 60's, a writer could make a living as a writer. It was an achievable goal in what might be called a golden age for writers. Maybe not so much anymore. It's still possible, but a fluke, when a creative, artistic voice strikes a universal chord with the masses, and some wiseguy financial wizard sees the possibility and backs the artist. Happens more often in other media, such as music and films, but who knows?
I do agree that the writing is the art and that the artist needs expression, but I also believe that the reading is as important in the process as the writing, else what is art?
No debate from me, Eamon. I'd write were I the last writer on the planet and all the readers forgot how and took the last train for the Coast wearing dark sunglasses and IPod buds ... I would write ... if for no other hope than that some alien people will find my words and know that our human race was human finally, and appreciative of beauty, not merely self destructive and vain, which is the greater evidence of human characteristics we'll be leaving behind.
But if I can get a check for a dollar or two for my writing before I die, more's the better.
eamon, where's the paypal button at the bottom of our message? i'd like to throw you a coin for a marvelous performance. trust it is, and a word here and there, too. cheerio, mate.
Writing as an end in itself? Or, as someone put it, "writing for the drawer?" It's a beautiful concept, Reverdy adored it. Or look at Vivian Maier: thousands of rolls of film, pictures taken, but undeveloped in the drawer. The act of taking the photo becomes an end in itself. The photographer never sees the pictures, and no-one else does either.
Of course, even that is way better than writing for money or fame. For the pure art of making? Better still. But I want more!
I want to both arouse a reader's emotion and compose her spirit. I want my words to be the clear water that sustains her, the small rain that waters the wild garden of her soul. And then I want that garden to produce blossoms of fragrant beauty, to bear fruit I can taste and savor. The goal of every word, every phrase, is the eventual sweet savor of that fruit.
For once you've tasted that fruit, every other goal seems meaningless... ;)
Thanks,
Bill
"The peoples rightly want to know if 1 million readers are 1 million times the value of 1 reader -. And my answer to those with the temerity to ask this question is this: if you’re ungrateful."
:D
That is a very good point!
And writing being an end to itself - absolutely.
Thank you for this enjoyable reminder.
In the Japanese sword school of Katori Shinto Ryu, the members, including the old sensei, pray each New Year, and the prayer is always the same: To approach the training and learning with the same attitude of freshness and openness and beginner's mind as they did when they started out.
I hope to keep the same attitude about writing.
Love,
Berit
Reading back over my rant, I guess there was a bit too much bombast. Apologies for that. But I have to get away one last shot at the Booker Prize. It gives out 50k of sterling every year to someone. Some ONE let me emphasise. The competition for this handout is something FIERCE. Publishers marshall VAST RESOURCES. The media makes a humungous HOO-HA about it. There's a reception. Writers turn up in TUXEDOS. Kid you not. And meanwhile out in the real world twenty million plumbers are unclogging pipes and putting in tap washers and doing all sorts of useful stuff and not one of them isn't making more than 75k. That's EVERY plumber. EVERY year.
It never hurts to have a useful trade.
And it's not unusual for hype to surround the endowment processes. It's purpose is never so much for the recipient to enjoy recognition as it is an opportunity for the agencies and individuals who proffer the endowment to enjoy the advertisement of their grand and benign munificence.
The way of the world is clear.
'Tis.