Posts Tagged "Twilight"
Why Do You Even Want a Book?
Writing students seem to have a common obsession, getting a book with their name on it. I had a friend in undergrad who would always talk about how she just wanted a book. One book and she would be happy. She disregarded all criticism and fired all of her editors, because she felt they were getting in the way of her dream by telling her to slow down. Now she has the book, a novel. It’s available to buy now. I would link it, but it’s the worst book I have ever read, and I can say that without hyperbole. After the novel came out the head of the fiction department at her MFA said that this book might ruin her career as a writer. She was so driven by her goal of getting a book out that she ignored any reason why she wanted a book to begin with.
“This is my book, and people are going to read it…by the Christmas shopping season, regardless of how many more edits you think it needs!”
Asking someone why they want a book seems almost too obvious to answer, yet after they actually think about the question, they realize it’s actually much tougher than they thought. The answers I’ve mostly gotten were desires for attention, celebrity, money, etc. Of course, keep in mind nobody actually gives up these answers so easily or in so many words. Everyone’s like a contestant on “The Bachelorette,” even if they’re not playing “for the right reasons” they’ve all learned how to talk like they are. And no self-respecting writer readily thinks of themselves as a hack.
If anything I’m surprised how many people are willing to admit that they write as a means to get a book, and the book is the means to money, attention, fame, validation, whatever else they are looking for instead of the book. It’s a dangerous question: “Why do you want a book?” because it calls into question why you’re devoting your life to something. It’s a scary idea to think that you have no fucking clue, and believe me, many people don’t.
“I’m not on ‘The Bachelorette’ to find love. I’m mostly just publicizing my website. Getting physical with a hot white girl is just a bonus.”
And so you see students who will write anything to increase their publications. I’ve been lectured by a writer about how it’s about the quantity and speed of publications and not the quality of the writing. I had another writer go on for days about how Native American literature was the new trend in writing (apparently) and how she wished she was Native American so she could get the book deal (This isn’t just a willingness to compromise self-expression, but the entirety one’s self!) I heard about a student, without any fight, agree to his thesis adviser’s recommendation that he write genre fiction. That student admitted a hatred for genre fiction and a want to do a literary novel, but the adviser had a connection to a publisher. So he agreed so he could get the book. When he told me this story, he wanted me to pity him for having such a terrible thesis adviser, but I was just filled with contempt. If his own vision wasn’t something he could stand up for, then why should I care when it’s taken away?
“So I can’t adopt your culture for financial gain?”
I know the writing field is not as much of a meritocracy as it should be. I think all arts are corrupt in that way and probably always have been. So I won’t say that these people are going to fail, but what I am saying is that I don’t think these people will be proud of themselves in the end. There’s a difference between an artist and a content creator. The difference is that an artist owns their vision and manifests it, while a content creator manufactures a product. Maybe it’s just me projecting myself onto others, but I couldn’t be happy as a content creator.
I’ve never made a compromise with my editors or instructors that I didn’t agree with, that I didn’t feel still captured myself, my vision, my writing. I think the rarest and best answer is, “I want a book, because I write.” I want to share my stories with other people. The book is a venue for that. That’s why I want to be published, to serve my ideas. I see a book as a service for my stories; I don’t see my stories as a means to a book.
When I publish a book I want to be proud of what I wrote, not that I caught the market at the right time. I’m a writer, not a god damned real estate agent.
Then again, I’ve been spit on and dismissed as a writer, a theorist, and an editor so many times during my career as a student that I’ve developed a pretty mean chip on my shoulder. I know if you dissected me enough you would find vanity and validation motivating why I want a book, underneath the desire of serving my ideas. Maybe I’m also a Bachelorette contestant, here for the wrong reasons, but I’ve learned to talk the talk so well that I’ve tricked myself into believing my own fairy tales.
“I’ve never seen writing like yours before. Now if that sounded like a compliment, let me disambiguate, there’s no market for you. Who you are is someone nobody is interested in. Become someone else or you will fail.”
“I’d rather try and fail as myself than ‘be smart’ and succeed as someone else. An attempt, I owe that little to myself and my dreams. What will your definition of success bring me when I’m old and wondering what it is I’ve done with my life? Am I going to wonder what would have happened if I only had more courage when I was younger? Besides, I’m a damn good writer. I dominate the audience at readings and have little trouble getting published. I’m working out just fine as a humor writer, so thank you for your concern.”
“You? A humor writer? That’s funny, because your writing makes me laugh…wait. I mean your writing is a joke. There, much better. Good self-edit.”
Who knows? I never put much thought into this question until I started my master’s program, which has a (sub)culture of among the students of being more interested in learning how to be a successful writer than in learning how to write (as if the two have nothing to do with each other). Considering my program is called a Masters of Professional Writing instead of a Masters of Fine Arts, this really should have been no surprise. I just wish someone would have told me earlier. I’m kind of lonely here, and I’m becoming angrier the longer I stay here. I’m having a harder time not just shouting “If you don’t have any fucking passion for writing, maybe you shouldn’t be getting a masters degree in it! Clear the bookshelves for people who care! Your life is too short to do something you don’t love! Maybe writing isn’t what your cutie mark is telling you.”
Note: I don’t know if this is a majority of people in my program or just a vocal minority, but it’s draining me just the same, and I want it to change.
Now, I’m not saying to give up if you’re not very good or not very successful. We all start off with varying degrees of bad writing. We have to work our way up. Writing well is something you can learn with focused study, right reason, time, and practice. I would never tell someone to give up on something they’re passionate about (#ratatouille). What I’m saying is if you don’t have passion for what you do, regardless of what you’re doing, you owe it to yourself as a mortal creature to be honest with yourself about it and not waste your life on it.
Maybe I’m the not the unheeded prophet, maybe I’m just wrong, naive, & idealistic. But I spent several weeks showing people how to SELL their creative works on Kickstarter. It’s not like my head is completely in the clouds and not grounded by captialism reality…right?
Reading Chinua Achebe Part 1: High School
So like many people I learned about the death of Chinua Achebe through Facebook, and then confirmed it with Wikipedia.
I’ve only read three things by Achebe: Things Fall Apart, a short story I hated and don’t remember, and some essays that gave me mixed feelings.
Things Fall Apart is one of my “which books had a profound impact on you” books. I’ve read it about 4 times. The only long form piece I’ve read more is Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.”
High School: Okonkwo was me. Full of rage and ready to pounce on anything that would give me the opportunity to fuck it up, verbally or physically. I once had a place of status among my friends, but I learned what depression is and began questioning my faith in God. This was around the time many of my Catholic friends were going through confirmation. I talked with them hoping that they could help me with my crisis of faith, which I don’t know if any of you have had this before, but it hurts. But my questions were echoed to members of my friend’s churches, and they were told that I was “the devil trying to lead them from the path of Christ.” I wasn’t the devil, but I was burning into impotent ash. I was a kid who was lost, confused, and in pain, but I guess that’s just as dangerous to people whose faith is no stronger than wet newspaper.
Religion had seemed to take away all of my friends. My best friend who taught me how to make inappropriate jokes decided that he was going to become a priest. And apparently one who wishes to be like Christ cannot hang out with sinners.
My grades were falling. Nothing made sense. I was fighting with my family, friends, enemies, strangers… everyone was my antagonist. The people who understood me seemed far away. They weren’t in the honors classes. Yet this fucking book understood. The people I skated with understood. They appreciated that I was the voice of reason while at the same time down to punch someone in the face. My English teacher understood and came to my rescue when things got out of hand (Forgive me, but I’m not ready to tell that story yet).
“I’m not violent. I’m just teaching a lesson about not being a punk-ass bitch to a tactile-kinesthetic learner.” -Adolescent Sharif
I was a slow reader, still am. I needed longer with the book before returning it to the library. My English teacher knew that usually I would just prematurely surrender the book. This time I wanted to finish it. My English teacher was understanding. The best English teachers are. I think this is why Holden trusts the English teacher in Catcher in the Rye. This is why the written word won’t die.
I went to New Mexico with my mom for a few days. My mom told me to use this as an opportunity to relax but also catch up on the school work that had seemed too pointless and overwhelming during my state of depression. I took Things Fall Apart with me. The TSA opened my bag, because one of their sensors said my public school textbooks had suspect chemicals, which were later cleared as not being a bomb. I told my English teacher about this, and she told me to throw the book away. I told her that the book seemed just fine. She then told me to keep it and pretend we had to throw the book away. Then she pulled out a little card with student’s names and book titles. Next to mine she crossed out the words Things Fall Apart. It’s on my bookshelf, just behind my green screen.
“Wow! I knew the book was good, but I didn’t know it could drive a pony to petty theft!”
Reading Chinua Achebe Part 2: Community College
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