With the publishing world
in total tumult and eBook sales challenging print sales, with self-pubbed
authors beating out “established” authors for big paychecks, and with agents or
distributors publishing books themselves it is no wonder that many are reconsidering
what it means to be a successful author. I’ve certainly spent a few whisky
hours thinking about what I want to do and when I will know I’ve gotten there.
I suppose I am lucky that
I know a few authors who have found success in the traditional world of
publishing. On the one hand, it makes that seem all the more possible and
accessible. On the other, it affords me a nut and bolts view of something that
would otherwise be buried in the mists of rumor and firewall. Their success
inspires me, but for a time, the success of my peers who I didn’t know or
support would always inflict a kind of wound. If they were as good as me, than
I wondered why it wasn’t me. If they weren’t as good a writer as I (in my
objective opinion), I had to wonder how it happened to them at all, and what
that said about the industry in total. Every writer I know has picked up a book
and wondered how it ever got past the slush pile. This all can lead to a bitterness
that does not help inspire the openness needed to be creative. I can’t say I am
innocent of this; I’ve felt it all was pointlessness.
My day job allows me to
see behind-the-scenes of many industries. I’ve had an access to the world of
rock and roll that I would never have if left to my own social devices. I’ve
seen big name bands, interviewed local bands and seen the rise and fall of
both. I’ve met people I idolized in my youth, long after platinum status left
them. For the most part, I was struck by how content they were, maybe peaceful.
They’ve the seen the top of the rock and roll lifestyle and have lived to see
beyond it. I suppose, at some time in my life, I would have thought this was
settling for less.
At the same time, I can’t
see much appeal in being a writer with superstar status like Stephen King or
J.K. Rowling. Sure, there’s the money, but it seems the money comes with
substantial limitations. The machine has to feed itself, and I don’t know if I
have the inner consistency to keep it running. I wonder, I dabble, and I
experiment. I have a hard time seeing myself in relation to other writers
around me, not sure if it is narcissism, but I just don’t think about the
outside world too much when I am writing. That’s the best part, as far as I can
tell; the ability to create without the necessity
of appeasing others.
I was out on a road trip,
my day job makes me travel quite a bit and thankfully the state is small enough
that it is not too long before there is some touch of wilderness within sight.
The road is much less tedious when it isn’t fast food developments and parking
lots passing by the window. One of the mainstream writers that has made a
successful foray into genre inspired work, probably Glen
Duncan, was being interviewed by a host, most likely Kerri
Miller, that clearly had little respect for the genre. I listened with
gritted teeth, probably out of some kind of masochism, and just got madder and
madder at the state of literature. I have a hard time understanding how a
successful book like The Last
Werewolf will help my own goals and work.
As it happened, I was distracted
by a forest outside of the window. It’s possible that Rush was on the radio
when I switched stations, possibly it was “The Trees”, but that could just be
my overactive imagination coloring memory. Anyway, I got to wondering how my
experience squared with the natural order of a forest. Did I want to be the
tallest tree? Did I want to be among the tallest trees? Did I want to all the
other trees to wither and die so that I could stand-alone? The pressure of
modern life felt like it was pushing me to want the other trees to fail so that
I could grow, but that just doesn’t work in a forest. A forest needs the
collective strength of the ecosystem to work, to thrive and to grow. A single
tree is a lonely thing, perhaps a symbol of strength, but most likely a
desperate and vulnerable way to live. You just can’t live if you remove all the
other trees around you.
So, it is with writing.
The market is what it is, but as a writer concerned with craft, there is no
reason to wish for others to do poorly or fail. There is no relevance, because
if I am taking the task seriously, I have enough on my hands to tell my stories
the way I have to tell them. No one else can do that or take that. Getting
upset by the success of my peers has no good end, it won’t make my writing
better and it won’t bring me any closer to whatever golden ring I imagine may
be out there.
I have experienced many
changes over the last two years, mostly fuelled by my own health challenges.
I’ve met the challenges well, but they have forced a hard and sober look at my
life and my art. The fact is that I am most likely much closer to the grave
than I should be, and I need to look seriously at what I can do with my time as
a writer. I can’t honestly say I want to spend the time I have worrying and
fretting about other writers, about the market, or about which critics may
enjoy my point-of-view. I need to spend the time writing the best stories I can
craft with the tools I have. No one else can help or harm that.
There is the success, I think.
I have to understand that I am, at best, a tree among many others. Some are
taller, some are shorter, but I must grow as I can. I must reach toward the
open air, keep my branches clear of inhabited space, and be proud to stand
amongst such a great and ancient forest.
