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Aug. 24th, 2004 11:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Yesterday, I wrote 1,010 words on "Bradbury Weather." I spent a good bit of the day getting a grasp on the Zubrin Mars Calendar. This story is shaping up to be darker sf than, say, The Dry Salvages. At least, I think it's darker, in that it's more concerned with human violence and weaknesses and fears than with great, cosmic Lovecraftian big-bads. A lot of my readers seem to disagree with me on this score. I thought, for example, that Low Red Moon was a far, far more horrific, frightening novel than Threshold. A lot of people didn't agree.
It might be the things I wrote yesterday, in part, which have me in this mood. But I know it's not only the things I wrote.
I'm sick of the internet, of Blogger, LiveJournal, Amazon, hypertext, e-mail, the whole goddamn mess of seemingly (but not actually) instantaneous communication.
I'm sick of video games.
I'm sick of the little plastic spouts with their convenient screw-on caps that juice cartons have to have now, helping to insure that no part of our lives can be free of petroleum byproducts.
Maybe I'm just sick. I think I have a minor sinus infection.
But if all that there is for me in life is this writing gig, then I'd really appreciate it if I could just focus on my writing. Not on reviews (both real and Amazonian), or sales figures, or return rates, or cover art, or schmoozing with other authors, or popularity, or any of that crap. Just the writing.
Forget the signings and public appearances. Forget the interviews. It's nothing that has anything to do with writing. Celebrity and art are always at odds, even minor celebrity. You might win the hearts of the masses, but then you have to keep them happy, or they'll turn on you in a heartbeat. And they have sharp teeth. I'd rather not bother winning them over in the first place.
I'm trying to say something important about writing and about being an author, but I'm afraid that, for whatever reason, I'm not being very clear.
If it were only a matter of writing my stories, of sitting in this dark little room, writing my stories. If it were only a matter of being the best artist that I can be. That's exactly what it never can be.
I have long bemoaned the online journal as a place to whine and self-pity. I certainly shouldn't be perpetuating the problem myself.
It might be the things I wrote yesterday, in part, which have me in this mood. But I know it's not only the things I wrote.
I'm sick of the internet, of Blogger, LiveJournal, Amazon, hypertext, e-mail, the whole goddamn mess of seemingly (but not actually) instantaneous communication.
I'm sick of video games.
I'm sick of the little plastic spouts with their convenient screw-on caps that juice cartons have to have now, helping to insure that no part of our lives can be free of petroleum byproducts.
Maybe I'm just sick. I think I have a minor sinus infection.
But if all that there is for me in life is this writing gig, then I'd really appreciate it if I could just focus on my writing. Not on reviews (both real and Amazonian), or sales figures, or return rates, or cover art, or schmoozing with other authors, or popularity, or any of that crap. Just the writing.
Forget the signings and public appearances. Forget the interviews. It's nothing that has anything to do with writing. Celebrity and art are always at odds, even minor celebrity. You might win the hearts of the masses, but then you have to keep them happy, or they'll turn on you in a heartbeat. And they have sharp teeth. I'd rather not bother winning them over in the first place.
I'm trying to say something important about writing and about being an author, but I'm afraid that, for whatever reason, I'm not being very clear.
If it were only a matter of writing my stories, of sitting in this dark little room, writing my stories. If it were only a matter of being the best artist that I can be. That's exactly what it never can be.
I have long bemoaned the online journal as a place to whine and self-pity. I certainly shouldn't be perpetuating the problem myself.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 05:25 pm (UTC)Sounds like you've gotten sick and tired of tending your immortality, and would rather just create. Which is the nobler of the two, I think, but in the same breath the more tragic.
Milan Kundera said all this with much more eloquence and beauty in his novel Immortality, but ah well. I work with what I have.
~Jacob
no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 02:41 pm (UTC)Creation, immortality, and money.
But yes, sadly, I've spent much of my life tending to my "immortality." There could be no more futile undertaking.
Sounds like you've gotten sick and tired of tending your immortality, and would rather just create.
It's a more palatable prospect, yes.
Nice comments.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-30 02:20 pm (UTC)~Jacob
no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 06:33 pm (UTC)I say without reservation that you are the best artist I know.
xx
Mella
no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 02:42 pm (UTC)I've faked mine so many times they're onto me...
no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 02:44 pm (UTC)I am inclined to agree. But that's a given.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 07:06 pm (UTC)Cool.
I thought, for example, that Low Red Moon was a far, far more horrific, frightening novel than Threshold. A lot of people didn't agree.
I agree (well, as you know). But there's probably also the issue here of what people fill blanks in with. Threshold, and Dry Salvages, are, like you said, focused on a Lovecraftian "big bad." Some people mind find that more frightening simply because they're insensitive to human drama, or because they have a reflex reaction to be absolutely frightened by the big, unknown thing.
I'm sick of the internet, of Blogger, LiveJournal, Amazon, hypertext, e-mail, the whole goddamn mess of seemingly (but not actually) instantaneous communication.
I definitely find myself in that mood at times. Mostly it's when I get tired of seeing myself talk.
If it were only a matter of writing my stories, of sitting in this dark little room, writing my stories. If it were only a matter of being the best artist that I can be. That's exactly what it never can be.
Where is the Star Trek universe when you need it? Sometimes I fantasise about living on the Enterprise and simply writing holodek programmes for the rest of my life.
This subject always makes me think of the story by Kafka, the title of which escapes me, about the mouse people and the one mouse that didn't seem particularly useful except she sang oddly.
I do think it's true that art isn't comfortable in its capitalist reins. That the need for money is a constraint that never ought to be put on an artist. And that's kind of a shame, because I think the masses often need to hear things from artists they very much don't want to. Actually, I think artists ought to be revered as immortal sacred creatures that live in really cool, ominous caves.
Yes, I'm the social one . . .
no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 08:54 pm (UTC)xx
Mella
no subject
Date: 2004-08-24 10:12 pm (UTC)Yes, I suppose . . . Gods, I want coffee right now, incidentally . . . The cave also oughta have special cars, alien zoos, Space Butlers (http://spacebutler.tripod.com/), and origami trainers.
Too long have I slept this day . . .
no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 02:46 pm (UTC)If only. Then I could retreat into my art, truly.
the one mouse that didn't seem particularly useful except she sang oddly.
Never has there been a more accurate description of me. Caitlín R. Kiernan: The Mouse Who Sang Oddly.
Mostly it's when I get tired of seeing myself talk.
Abso-frelling-lutely.
no subject
Date: 2004-08-25 10:57 am (UTC)Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 01:37 pm (UTC)Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 02:38 pm (UTC)Possibly, this is the first course art students should be required to take.
Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 07:03 pm (UTC)What's happened to art for art's sake?
Where have you gone Andy Warhol?
On another note; read in the papers that Billy Al Bengston (contemporary of Warhol and POPART very influential painter in "his day") retired and moved to Canada to dairy farm or something...
specifically because he couldn't find a gallery to represent him and/or a museum that wanted to mount a retrospective...even though he had kept actively painting until retirement.
Again, Hmmmmm
Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 07:07 pm (UTC)Nothing, really. As always, it's a quick road to starvation.
Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 04:38 pm (UTC)xx
Mella
Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 06:57 pm (UTC)Re: Pardon my sleep deprivation rantings above
Date: 2004-08-25 07:06 pm (UTC)That's a good start.