The Delusion of the Artist
Anybody who writes anything beyond a private diary has some degree or arrogance, delusion, or both.
I include myself in this. I am somewhat deluded as a writer. I like to think more deluded than arrogant.
Don’t worry though, if you happen to be a writer. I don’t think these need be permanent, or even prominent traits. But think on this: the moment you hope somebody out there in the world wants to listen to things you made up and/or things you think, you are embracing at least some arrogance. The miniscule assumption that words you put together at home will be worthy of the attention of others in an attention-diminishing world. And I am not even referring to becoming rich and famous; anybody who has written knows that it’s sometimes a small miracle to even get a few friends to ready your stuff.
(My thanks once again to those few who read mine.)
I often come back to the proposition that if one knows there words and stories and ideas will never be considered by another person, they might as well save time and energy, and leave them all inside one’s mind.
The spiritual pilgrimage every writer, indeed every type of creative must take at some point, in order to find contentment, is the realization that it is the process of creating that is the focal point of a life of scope. Popular or not, the very fact you create something is a certain meditation against the very nihilism and fruitlessness that can creep into your mind when nobody does take an interest.
The universe has one more creation in it because of what you do. Even the enormity of everything we know is added to if you create. It’s external, even if not eternal.
You won’t feel this wisdom all the time. I don’t. In fact, only maybe a third of the time can I tell myself that the creative act itself is the balm on the cold dark wound of being alive in today’s world…and that while worldly success could provide much needed money as well as a gratifying sense of lightening the hearts and engaging the minds of readers, it cannot be depended on. There is too much luck involved for that.
I don’t always want to create. Neither do you, and it’s fine. We adopt nothing to our gain if we guilt ourselves for our failures to gain it.
And if a tiny bit of arrogance here and there gets that noble ball rolling enough to continue once the dust settles, so be it.
The Tempest in a Teapot
I can write two books at once, and have done. The caveat is that one has to be fiction, the other non-fiction. They occupy parts of my mind distinct enough from one another to cause no issues.
Outside of this arrangement, I won’t write more than one book at a time. One will inevitably suffer if I write say two novels at once–the required commitment is diluted.
Even if I go a month without working on a novel, I am committed to it so long as I do not move to a different story. If I started a new story every time the notion of one occurred to me, I would simply never finish anything. Discipline!
For my occasional non-fiction, it is the same.
I also avoid double-ups in my theatre life. A play is not as constant or for as much time as writing a novel. But arguably it requires a tighter, more intense focus on any given day or week than the writing of a novel does.
And it happens on someone else’s deadlines.
Not to mention what one owes the rest of a cast and crew.
No. I very much don’t screw around with plays. I am in or I am out. No half-assing it.
To be in two plays as once has happened once before in my life…until now.
As I am in rehearsals for Arthur Miller’s A View from a Bridge, as Alfieri, I have been cast in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, as Sebastian.
(Those who follow me regularly will note that my current novel, The Rubble and The Shakespeare happens to tell the tale of a group of people attempting to perform this very play. )
Which means there will be some overlap in rehearsals. This is mitigated to a certain degree because both plays are at the same venue. Had the second play been elsewhere, I doubt I would have auditioned for it.
For me, this is not best practice under normal circumstances.
But it wasn’t normal circumstances. Shakespeare is so infrequent on the community stage, especially in my area, I grab the chance to perform it when I can. I doubt there would be any other playwright that would encourage me to double in this way.
It will require greater focus, dedication, and an appreciation of the process of storytelling than being in a single production requires. Handled poorly could invite a certain irony–the art would diminish the creativity through sheer volume.
I am determined to avoid this, of course. If anything, I want to use this temporary double-up to encourage enhanced mindfulness while rehearsing one over the other. The now, and the moment of the creative act must be priority, both on the Miller days and the Shakespeare days, until the former is concluded and I can throw myself totally into the latter.
This is not something I want to do often. But as I am in it, the deliberation and thought for process can attain a rare depth, if I am motivated to make it so.
And I am.
The Five Pages Rule
I’ve mentioned before I rarely read books of more than 400 pages. I realize that to some I am missing out on many potential great stories. But as I am, and have always been a slower reader than average, (probably related to Autism…everything else is!), I have to be choosey about length if I don’t want to be reading the same book for two or three months.
Every few years I’ll attempt an epic-length read if the premise appeals to me. Most of the time it’s worth the effort somewhat tiring effort. Sometimes it isn’t. (I couldn’t get into The Priory of the Orange Tree, my most recent attempt at a so called “brick.”)
In truth, it isn’t so much about the number of pages. It is about the speed of most pages in said book. Something I call The Five Pages Rule.
Not a revolutionary idea. Quite simply, it’s a matter of how quickly I can read through five pages, about three-quarters of the time.
One reason I shy away from epic-length books is that any given five-page sliver is so damn slow.
I get it; this is often done on purpose. The author seeks to establish the proverbial “slow burn,” provide an immersive experience to the reader. Legitimate style choices, those. However, it isn’t a style I have been able to consume a regular basis. The snob in me wishes I could read either faster, or enjoy more the painstaking nature of such reads, but if I have not developed either trait by this point in my life, I am not likely ever to do so.
Nor is it limited to sagas; some of the slowest books I have ever tried to read were less than 200 pages total.
The audiobook I’m listening to, (due to an error on my part) is longer than I thought it was when I checked it out–might approach 500 written pages, rough guess. But I have not as of yet set it aside, because most “five pages” move quickly as I listen.
No doubt the narrator plays a large role in this. Not to mention, I can get through any audio book faster than any written book–most people can. More is forgiven when listening to a book than when reading it, I can’t deny that.
Yet there is only so much even the best readers can do for a book that is “written slow.” If the pages of this longer-than-my-usual read were slowly paced on paper, it would have bled into the narration. It has happened with plenty of my other audio DNFs over the years.
I don’t suggest every page of every book must be lightening fast. Paces are supposed to vary. It’s not so much speed but smoothness of read.
And of course even good books hit lulls sometimes. My oft-mentioned habit of given any book 50 pages to catch my attention still stands, usually. But within that 50, if there are more 5-page slogs than 5-page sailings? Probably headed toward DNF island.
Audio or not, if more books in the 400+ page range concerned themselves with how fast a reader gets through five pages at a time, instead of focusing only on the long game, I’d consume far more such books, more often than I do now.
As an author myself, I usually strive for faster pages the average in my fiction. One cannot fully judge the success of one’s own work in this regard, but I have it on my mind every time I write, despite all my novels being under 400 written pages thus far.
My current work in progress, which I began a mere few weeks ago will almost certainly end up with more written pages than anything else I have written. I went into it knowing it may be near-epic length by the time it is finished. That’s why I’m all the more cognizant of just how fast most of the five-page-slivers will read.
Why five pages? No hard and fast reason. I think that any book I am likely to enjoy on the whole will string together five good pages more often than not. But for some it could be 10 pages or 30 for all I know. It depends on how much and how fast one reads. The point is, when you have to read slow, and in shorter sessions such as myself, having most of your smaller pieces packed full of memorable writing that is a joy to get through, you make up for the slower parts.
If I find an author of longer fiction that does this, I may just read more of those popular doorstoppers.
Looking Back on My First Book Fair
A few days short of one month ago, I had my first ever author booth at book fair. It was the Love Books Festival, in Lovettsville, Virginia. With the passage of that month, and some time to let the experience sink in, I’m now ready to offer some overall thoughts on what it was like.
I have to start with a disappointment specific to the event itself. It was the first time this group attempted an event of this nature, but there was little to no communication with the authors. It was a first for me too, but other than my name on a tiny place card on the table in the gymnasium, I had no guidance. I just carried in my stuff at set it up.
Nobody from the event ever came round to introduce themselves or ask if we, the authors needed anything. I didn’t happen to need anything, but not being asked made me feel like a number on auto pilot.
It was my first time ever creating a display of this nature. I’d say given my budget, I managed it well.
Sadly, I sold only a single book. It wasn’t;t even my most recent book.
Part of it was probably the newness of the event, for everyone not just me. Nevertheless there were a nice stream of people for most of the afternoon. And I did get a few nibbles, but only the one sale.
I left about 30 minutes early.
The guy two tables away from me literally was calling people into his booth in a hard sell. “Hey you with the red shirt, you like rocks? Come here, want you to see something.”
Gauche, in my opinion. But even if that is the expectation, that was never going to be me. My books don’t invite themselves well to such a pitch in the first place, even if I didn’t find that approach obnoxious.
Half of the venders were selling kids books. Far be it from me to claim expert marketing knowledge, but in my mind, kids books and adult books should be at separate fairs, or in the very least separate rooms at the same fair. The nature of the customer and the author differs substantially, and I hypothesize having so many kids running around looking for free stuff looks away at least some of the oxygen from adult-book authors who might otherwise have found themselves in useful conversation with potential buyers.
Or one another. As it stood, my neighbor on one side never showed, and almost none of the other authors made rounds to other tables, so I met nobody.
Overall, while I was technically not as adrift in a glut of authors and books at this fair as I am on the internet, I still felt quite alone and unseen. Worse, I can think of no approach that would change this, beyond not having kids present, and that is speculation at this point.
If I did this again anywhere, I believe I will look for a category specific book fair. A fantasy fair, where people are at least looking for the sort of tale I have written in most cases. They may not buy it, but I bet that a fair dedicated to a genre would encourage more people to take time at every table, whereas an open fair for all genres (that were not even clumped together as far as I could tell) leaves too much to chance.
Otherwise, if I ever manage to swing an individual appearance at an event, where I am the author present specifically.
I won’t say I regret going to the Love Books Festival, exactly. And I am well aware that any such event can be hit or miss. But in the case of my first time trying, I don’t think the investment came anywhere near being worth the return, unless. At least not outside of, “get the first time out of the way.”
I wouldn’t have approached my presence any other way, if I had to do this all over again. I just wonder if, in hindsight, this was the best inaugural book fair for me and my work.
To Start Writing is Half the Effort
As I write this, I have written the first paragraph of my next novel.
And to this point no more of it.
It’s been a few days since I wrote that first paragraph. Furthermore, that first paragraph was a long time coming; I’ve been outlining and structuring the nature of this upcoming work for months now.
It’s a space sci-fi story, as I have mentioned before. If my current projections are accurate it will be the longest novel I have yet written, with the most characters to keep track of, and more subplots than normal.
I wrote a single paragraph of it the other day. That’s all.
I call that paragraph “pushing the boulder.” If I sat down and considered the enormity of the project that lay ahead of me I may never have gotten started. The bigness has probably delayed my start more than once in fact.
Yet I sat down one day determined to write just the opening paragraph. Push that boulder, and get it rolling down that hill.
It may not seem like it, but there is all the difference in the world between zero paragraphs and one paragraph. Far more difference than between one paragraph and two.
With one paragraph down, you enter an entirely new stage of work. The era of the project in progress is upon you. You may stall, take breaks, get frustrated, you know, experience all the downs of writing.
But you are “in progress.”
When you have zero written, you are not in progress. You are delayed. Not ready. IN some cases, perhaps afraid.
It’s particularly useful, nay vital for someone like me, who finishes an entire first draft before editing. But getting that first paragraph written, even if you edit it 50 times before proceeding opens the door. You may sit on the floor for two weeks after the fact, but the door is open, and that is where the power comes from.
So don’t start your next project if it intimidates you. Write your first paragraph, and tell the world you are currently working.
Just saying it, even to yourself, helps.
Ty Unglebower 