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Let me preface this entire entry with the assurance that I do not have a fucking clue what I'm talking about. I am not an authority on anything. To me, usually the only difference between "amateur" and "professional" is a paycheck (though, by that definition, I am a professional artist... and I don't know how I feel about that). I'm just verbose to the point of horror and have been thinking about these things for an hour and a half while I was cleaning and breathing in all kinds of dust and chemicals. If I have to warn you not to take anything too seriously by now, then maybe some un-friending (de-friending..? anti-friending..?) should be going on.
This was prompted by a minor discussion with a friend. I am a lot of things, of course, but I'll focus on original writing here--and yes, I am a writer. But am I a successful writer? I don't quite have a definition for "successful". I've written novels, short stories, weird shit, prose, have continued to challenge myself... but I don't think that's what most people want to hear. For the general population, success = money, and anything else is unimportant.
Well then yes, I am a successful writer. I have made $6.23 in book sales. And that is indeed enough to buy a meal with, as I did. A meal and a drink. Fancy shit, people. Taxachusetts won't let you have a bag of chips, too, though.
So for a moment, let's unimaginably set aside the idea that money is the end all, be all of success. Why, what else is there? Not enjoyment, that's silly. Why it must be the raw suffering that comes with believing your own work to be shit and yet writing it anyway! Alright, so that one is a little cruel. I completely understand the desire to improve your own writing, I honestly do. And I've been around enough writers who I would honestly say did suffer a bit for their art. I've seen them go through their works dozens of times, editing, moving things around, tormenting themselves with the question, "Is this good enough?" And unfairly... I've avoided all of that. Yes, I admit it, I've never had to worry about that aspect of... anything. Why? Because I just don't give a fuck, obviously.
--No, wait. That's not quite true. I care very deeply for what I write, and what I write about. Most of it is prompted by dreams, fed by music, encouraged by people who I'm close to; of course I'm going to care! I just... seem to have a disconnect between myself and the rest of the world. (Fine, I'll wait for you to stop laughing. ...Anytime now...) Essentially, I don't write for other people. As I don't make things for other people (unless they commission me, of course). Nor music. Nor did I ever do anything OrgLIX- or Crisis Perverted-related for anything other than to make myself laugh. (Though of course there are more inside jokes for the voice actors contained in those scripts than I care to point out. Man I wish we could have full-cast live commentaries.)
But now that I've assured the world I'm just a selfish bitch, I want to make it clear that people who've appreciated my work are in turn very appreciated themselves. It's... um, weird to manage to touch people on that level, either through a particularly dark scene or through laughter. Not bad-weird. Just unexpected. It's the fact that I've had the enormous good fortune of receiving a comment from a stranger telling me that they've liked something I've done that assures me I need to keep doing it--but for the same reasons that I have been. I mean, the true driving force behind my creativity? It's because I want to. If you don't know me very well, then let me assure you: if I don't want to do something, I will not do something. (Well, I mean, within reason; I sure as hell didn't want to clean today, but I did. And I'll be doing laundry for quite some time.)
So let me simplify my dysfunction: when someone doesn't like my work, it doesn't affect my creative process at all. (In fact, it's just the opposite; if they've made polite points, I practice being polite back and then completely ignore them. If they're jackasses then I just have a lot of fun responding. I'm a punk, honeypants; anger is my energy) When someone does like my work, it makes me happy and sometimes it starts amazing friendships. But either way, I'm going to keep doing what I do for the same reasons that I always have. This will never make me rich. This will probably eventually have me living in a cardboard box behind a mall. But another book sale would get me another meal, y'know? Maybe cardboard jewelry will catch on.
But this winds us around to another idea (sort of, pretend with me here): I cannot give the kind of advice people are looking for. It's not that I don't want to be helpful, it's just that... I can't be. "Do what you love" and "be true to yourself" are ungodly, rage-inducingly vague. They're also the only pieces of advice I ever found useful, and the only ones I can freely offer. Oh, oh, and "fuck grammar". Seriously. Fuck it. Go cowgirl on that shit.
*long pause*
Okay, on the subject of having my own style. There is no better observation about this than Ursula Vernon passing some advice along. Whatever "style" I have is completely accidental; it's a desperate attempt to communicate and nothing more. Those poor souls who've ever actually spoken to me understand this more than anyone.
Then I remembered something and went back to search for it: this post in Zellie's blog about realizing that she was "a writer". One year and two days before she died. I can't carry on her legacy for her and I would never think to try. I can keep doing what she encouraged me to do, for all of the reasons she encouraged me to do it. Not because she's dead, which is the wrong reason to do anything. It's because she encouraged me to write for the joy of it and not to change to suit anyone's tastes. Maybe we will ultimately discover that is stupid advice, who knows. It made her happy, and it makes me happy, and I made $6.23 from book sales so I am clearly an authority.
And as a true testament to my authorial prowess, I have no idea what I've just written but I'm going to post it anyway and then have some tea and maybe a biscuit and practice my run-on sentences because everyone loves run-on sentences, particularly ones that never really get to the point but just keep going for no other reason than the author's own aversion to periods. But who doesn't share in that, am I right?
This was prompted by a minor discussion with a friend. I am a lot of things, of course, but I'll focus on original writing here--and yes, I am a writer. But am I a successful writer? I don't quite have a definition for "successful". I've written novels, short stories, weird shit, prose, have continued to challenge myself... but I don't think that's what most people want to hear. For the general population, success = money, and anything else is unimportant.
Well then yes, I am a successful writer. I have made $6.23 in book sales. And that is indeed enough to buy a meal with, as I did. A meal and a drink. Fancy shit, people. Taxachusetts won't let you have a bag of chips, too, though.
So for a moment, let's unimaginably set aside the idea that money is the end all, be all of success. Why, what else is there? Not enjoyment, that's silly. Why it must be the raw suffering that comes with believing your own work to be shit and yet writing it anyway! Alright, so that one is a little cruel. I completely understand the desire to improve your own writing, I honestly do. And I've been around enough writers who I would honestly say did suffer a bit for their art. I've seen them go through their works dozens of times, editing, moving things around, tormenting themselves with the question, "Is this good enough?" And unfairly... I've avoided all of that. Yes, I admit it, I've never had to worry about that aspect of... anything. Why? Because I just don't give a fuck, obviously.
--No, wait. That's not quite true. I care very deeply for what I write, and what I write about. Most of it is prompted by dreams, fed by music, encouraged by people who I'm close to; of course I'm going to care! I just... seem to have a disconnect between myself and the rest of the world. (Fine, I'll wait for you to stop laughing. ...Anytime now...) Essentially, I don't write for other people. As I don't make things for other people (unless they commission me, of course). Nor music. Nor did I ever do anything OrgLIX- or Crisis Perverted-related for anything other than to make myself laugh. (Though of course there are more inside jokes for the voice actors contained in those scripts than I care to point out. Man I wish we could have full-cast live commentaries.)
But now that I've assured the world I'm just a selfish bitch, I want to make it clear that people who've appreciated my work are in turn very appreciated themselves. It's... um, weird to manage to touch people on that level, either through a particularly dark scene or through laughter. Not bad-weird. Just unexpected. It's the fact that I've had the enormous good fortune of receiving a comment from a stranger telling me that they've liked something I've done that assures me I need to keep doing it--but for the same reasons that I have been. I mean, the true driving force behind my creativity? It's because I want to. If you don't know me very well, then let me assure you: if I don't want to do something, I will not do something. (Well, I mean, within reason; I sure as hell didn't want to clean today, but I did. And I'll be doing laundry for quite some time.)
So let me simplify my dysfunction: when someone doesn't like my work, it doesn't affect my creative process at all. (In fact, it's just the opposite; if they've made polite points, I practice being polite back and then completely ignore them. If they're jackasses then I just have a lot of fun responding. I'm a punk, honeypants; anger is my energy) When someone does like my work, it makes me happy and sometimes it starts amazing friendships. But either way, I'm going to keep doing what I do for the same reasons that I always have. This will never make me rich. This will probably eventually have me living in a cardboard box behind a mall. But another book sale would get me another meal, y'know? Maybe cardboard jewelry will catch on.
But this winds us around to another idea (sort of, pretend with me here): I cannot give the kind of advice people are looking for. It's not that I don't want to be helpful, it's just that... I can't be. "Do what you love" and "be true to yourself" are ungodly, rage-inducingly vague. They're also the only pieces of advice I ever found useful, and the only ones I can freely offer. Oh, oh, and "fuck grammar". Seriously. Fuck it. Go cowgirl on that shit.
*long pause*
Okay, on the subject of having my own style. There is no better observation about this than Ursula Vernon passing some advice along. Whatever "style" I have is completely accidental; it's a desperate attempt to communicate and nothing more. Those poor souls who've ever actually spoken to me understand this more than anyone.
Then I remembered something and went back to search for it: this post in Zellie's blog about realizing that she was "a writer". One year and two days before she died. I can't carry on her legacy for her and I would never think to try. I can keep doing what she encouraged me to do, for all of the reasons she encouraged me to do it. Not because she's dead, which is the wrong reason to do anything. It's because she encouraged me to write for the joy of it and not to change to suit anyone's tastes. Maybe we will ultimately discover that is stupid advice, who knows. It made her happy, and it makes me happy, and I made $6.23 from book sales so I am clearly an authority.
And as a true testament to my authorial prowess, I have no idea what I've just written but I'm going to post it anyway and then have some tea and maybe a biscuit and practice my run-on sentences because everyone loves run-on sentences, particularly ones that never really get to the point but just keep going for no other reason than the author's own aversion to periods. But who doesn't share in that, am I right?