More On What To Write

I am, at this moment, listening to Baroque Bordello, a 1980's French Cold Wave group. When I think of the many musical movements and their similarities and divergences, I am moved to think that literature has undergone a similar fragmentation throughout its development. The novel for instance has become longer, genre specific, and more liberal in its scope and definition than before. Poetry seems to exemplify this movement much better, however I write novels so I will write this point.

Novels seem to be more escapist enterprises for their consumers than music. But why would a reader want to go on a trip with you, my dear fellow writer? I suppose we all feel we have a message or a story to tell. What is most important is the sense that one has successfully been submerged in an alternate reality. Those are the books I adore most. The Communist/Socialist movement inspired so much discourse simply because those who espoused those ideals were capable of consuming and producing works of masterful fiction. Ideals are best left to fiction? Debatable. But my point in mentioning Communist literature is to convey the capacity for imagination to move people. When we escape to the world of Marx and Engels, or Kropotkin for that matter, we are imagining something grander than what we are. This is the purpose of fiction. What if there were a writer who wrote the story of the ideals of humankind so poignantly that he could stir us to disabuse ourselves of injustice. Huge task. Impossible? Probably.

But with the success of novels such as "50 Shades of Grey" and authors whose prose sounds like schoolgirl rabble, I wonder what the market could be waiting for. Is there a novel that appeals trans-generationally, trans-ideologically? Is that possible? What is that character like? A degenrate, an orphan, a hooker with a heart of gold? Hmmm. I'm very confused. What I do understand is that the literary market is saturated with vampires and skywalkers, detectives and psychopaths. If I write to the secular, I've lost the spiritual or religious, individuals I respect. If I write to the elite or educated, I alienate the under-educated, a segment I observe an obligation to (they need us more than any other). The crisis of the artist is who zi wants to attract. Zir ilk or those zi would like to be zir ilk?

In my last post, I suggested that I would hereon write GlamLit. This is the term I coined for it. GlamLit is the genre of literature that represents to society the life of those we would like to be. The entire Romance genre was founded upon this principle. So why not GlamLit? Gatsby was GlamLit. So much of it is. Imagine the undoing of Buddha and there you have it. Desire more. Be selfish. Take the time to read this book and talk about it with someone you love to pretend with. We as the not-so-wealthy can aspire in our imaginations to the intrigue and delusion of the grandeur of those who live at the height of prosperity. While you eat your Swanson's frozen PotPie, remember to pick up a copy of my next novel. Mhmm. I've got it all figured out. :-(

What To Write

In my previous blog entry, I touched upon the crisis of humanity at its evolution to adopt science as investigator and not the poet (author, dramatist, etc...). This evolution of specialization as the best option which so many have taken as a good as they want to be good at something too. This commodification of knowledge has led to so much disarray. God is dead! Sure. Might makes right. At first, yes. But better living through chemistry. Or, the world is your oyster. Damn it! All these expressions have no wisdom. What happened to the bud of the flower? What comes of society at inspection of these notions? Science is a divorce from intuition as it fails to achieve analogs from human experience of the transcendent to explain the chaos. I have yet to read a scientific theory which supports the wisdom traditions. Evolution is based in competition. Abel would have never forgiven Cain. Commercialism and the market is so snakey and we bite that apple everyday, with every dollar we spend. Do you see? Buddha would never permit such indulgence in ego or social standing as we each have. I am sad. A tear for the wise men.

What is this war and the failure of each at it. We are slain soldiers. In every hospital in the world is a victim of consumerism. Yet the author's only vault is to sell his product. The desire to disseminate the good message is grand and noble, yet how many successful authors are spreading a message which brings the reader to a greater or safer or more aware level? Not many. I am sad again.

When we can share in the sense of justice as children of the world, we can regain the fear of punishment. Children have an apt sense of just consequence. Their tears are the work of the unjust. They cry for you to tell them a story which will recreate an image of justice so they may feel like that place they came from is not a lie, a delusion, an abyss, but the origin of all things. Call it will, life force, anything. But don't call it reality. Reality has never been consentual. Maybe that is where the poet failed? Maybe the poets task is to heighten, interpret and elevate. Like an escalator to the great luxury in the sky, the poet ought to seek beauty's heights. Why not write about the rich and their fabulosity? Is that a word? No. It is though. :-)

License, Community, and Self

I am not a good writer. I cannot be.

This is what I want to say. I write because it is cathartic. I am pained when I do not compose. My artistic event is ecstatic and I produce good content, yet my grammar and mechanics can be off. What do I do? Do I seek the community of other authors? Sure I do. Do I take classes and read books? Of course I must. However I do none of this currently. I am too preoccupied by the concerns of a human. I have heard so many people say "I want to write... but...". This terrifies me.


My first novel was my baby. Ugly babies are still beautiful to their parents. "The Poet of Future Myth" is not an ugly baby. It is very premature.

When I wrote as a younger man, I discovered the pleasure of composing something unique. An expression of my own understanding. I started with poetry. All of my early writings were experimental and I fancied innovative form over the classic or standard. As I obtained my undergraduate degree in English, I learned the value of classical forms and I obtained a taste for the standards of formal, effective, and powerful expression of what were universal ideals. What Freud could say for the psychic had been said centuries before in the form of drama, poetry, and rhetoric.

So I have written a novel which I feel is premature. The final edit is forthcoming. The paperback is pennies away from print. Yet because I do not have community with other authors, I sense that my work is somehow disconnected from the only people who can actually appreciate the process. And the passion within that process. And more than this, the distinct style and voice which only those who have the imagination of the creative event could recognize upon reading my work. This is tragic. This is the demise of great minds who otherwise could be representative of the progress of the discourse on aesthetics, canon, and pedagogical concerns such as SRTOL, First-Year Composition, and discourse communities in fact. I am not writing to express a grievance, but a grief.

Authors of ideas have a like sensibility of a need to be heard, an excitement at the prospect of expounding upon their ideas once read. What comes of an author, or worse yet, a poet who in the act of composing attains levels of ecstasy at this prospect, and no one ever knows? That is the main thrust of my first novel "The Poet of Future Myth".

What I attempt to accomplish is the humiliation of such persons who cannot accept the fate of being mediocre. Poets have lost favor in our day. We seek the points of the scientist. But Pointillism (Chromoluminarism) could never capture the endurance of a beautiful string of words which illuminate. Humanity will never achieve the peace which was once spoken and then sung by the lips of parent to child, lover to beloved, and teacher to student.