I have always been fascinated by the spaces between rain drops. The mundane rituals of human behavior have a particular attraction to me. Like the character in ‘Three Men in a Boat’ – work interests me, I can sit and watch it for hours. I mention these things because there’s a new dual-novella work that’s just been sent to my Agent. It contains two tales that focus on different aspects of the above subjects. One does it in a kind of sweeping epic way, the other approaches matters from much closer, a more intimate narrative. It tickles my funny bone to join these two works so diametrically opposed to each other. I can only hope my agent sees the twinning of two opposing stories in the same light.
If not, then there will be a new work for the Kindle. I still consider writing for the Kindle to be a second choice. In years to come if I am asked whether I’d like to be a collection of ones and zero’s on a handheld device, or a paper book resting on a shelf, my answer would always be: first the book, please. I like a format that does not require electricity to communicate itself. To quote from Caesar ‘how many ages hence shall this our lofty scene be re-enacted?’ The answer, if all human art is relegated to the vagaries of modern electrical devices, is ‘not long,’ I think.
So I err toward traditional publishing as a first choice, purely because I have read books by candlelight in adverse circumstances when there’s been no power. I have experienced how all the glorious shiny, nice-to-hold gadgets become useless lumps of metal and plastic. But the whir of the pages of a real book by candlelight, now that continues regardless. Books can be read in caves by firelight.
I am slowly clearing the decks of completed work, and facing the joys of seeing a blank page and even emptier days stretching out ahead of me. I have full trust in my mind’s abilities to squeeze out an interesting narrative to keep myself amused. After all, that’s one of the primary goals of writing: to amuse myself. I enjoy creating things which have never been before.
I am constantly bemused by the self-proclaimed ‘indie writers’ on various forums who seem to be all about creating work for ‘the market’ and displaying a certain greed as they count their sales.
I make worlds that have never existed, and people them with characters whose motives are murky at best – and then enjoy ‘zooming in’ and describing humdrum activity. Often this appears to have nothing to do with the narrative, its only once the piece is completed that I can see I have made something unique.
During the process of writing, I’m the last person to know why this or that is happening, or how come those characters are performing that activity. As my body of work grows, I can see threads of similarity forming: the Moon often features, characters will have tea, be haunted by dreams or regrets, to name but a few things. There are down sides to never knowing what I’m writing about. I’m sure psychologists would have a field day with my work, given how much of it comes from my unconscious mind.
It is strange being in a country ostensibly predicated on ‘difference’ – to see so much conformity of thought. The forums of the self-published echo with ‘how many did you sell today?’ ‘what new marketing methods have you discovered?’ and my favorite ‘why I can’t afford an editor.’
Few of these forums contain discussion about how to achieve good writing, how to engage the emotions of the reader, or how to craft sentences. Instead, there is a clamoring hungry envious buzz as those who happen to have sold thousands or millions of copies, are held up as Gods to be aspired to. At times it feels like one is among the Israelites melting their gold and fashioning graven images to worship while a Moses is somewhere up the mountain, communing with an unseen deity.
The trick, I think, is to simply keep on writing; avoid being suckered into the herd mindset of obsessive concern over sales figures, the rampant envy, or for that matter, the false largesse of the desperate. Little children bounce up and down on diving boards at swimming pools, calling to their parents to look at them. I see the same ‘notice me!’ head space in a lot of posts on forums. The trivial is seized upon as an excuse to make a post and display ones signature file showing book covers.
I was reading a pungently bad review of someone’s book on a blog site. The author responded by saying the copy wasn’t the final draft, and signed off by citing the fact that he had two glorious grandchildren. I shuddered, picturing, for some reason, bloody-fingered desperate would-be writers hauling out family pictures as they scrabble on a slippery slope. Don’t look or judge my writing, they seemed to say, here, listen to me as I describe my babies. Pity me. Buy my book because you feel sorry for my glorious grandchildren. Make allowances for bad writing because…
There truly is no dignity in consumerism.
And all I can do is write the best I can. The circumstances of my own life, my personal life, my own private demons, remain between me and my subconscious. Some bits and pieces have been formalized in print (in the Penguin-published autobiography) and even that massive overshare is not even half the story. It is not the sum total of my experience, and it certainly should never be perceived as an advert for my writing.
It is a rainy day. I suppose the drizzle and gloom is affecting me, bringing out my interior Poe. Consider this blog post a mere stream of murmuring thoughts. I do not ‘blog’ to advertise – I know this much. I blog to share some of my thoughts, ideas and passing fancies that aren’t assuaged by writing fiction. So in some ways, I guess I am a voyeur’s paradise.
New work sent off. Old work still being edited. A brand new piece currently emerging. There, for those who want blogs containing ‘facts’ and no more.
Time to do some ‘proper’ writing.
Until the next time…
