I'm moving. My room currently looks as though it has been invaded by a particularly vindictive burglar. Soon I will be gone, but before that happens this room has to look pristine. So I'm very busy, in the very melancholy and stressful way that moving makes one busy. So, if you're waiting to hear from me, well, that's probably why you haven't heard from me yet.
The other day I popped into a certain second-hand bookshop in London, because I happened to be passing, and I said hello and was given a nice cup of tea. I'm generally a conversationally disadvantaged person, but after a while a conversation with one of the staff got underway, about the way in which many writers are known only for one or two works when they wrote a great deal – this had been prompted by the fact I'd noticed a volume by M.P. Shiel on the shelves, with a title I had never heard of. I think it was something like Lord of the Ocean. On the same shelves I noticed a copy of The Pillow Friend by Lisa Tuttle. I remarked that Lisa had written the introduction to my next book, and there was some discussion then of her work. I took the book of the shelf and looked at the price. It was twelve pounds, which, to someone like me, is a lot of money. I had read Lost Futures and Memories of the Body by Tuttle, and enjoyed them both very much, but I had not read this.
Eventually, I decided it was time for me to ramble on, as Robert Plant might have said, although not to find the queen of all my dreams, but to find lunch at a nice greasy spoon. I looked at the copy of The Pillow Friend I had placed back on the shelf. What the hell! I thought. This books wants to be read, and it wants to be read by me. I took it to the front desk and laid out the cash.
Then I left the shop. As I was walking down the road I saw another of the staff from the shop coming my way. Apparently he had just come from a late lunch himself. He stopped on the pavement and we chatted for a while. He spoke about the state of the book business. "The bookshop is dying," he said, "Publishers, bookshops and writers are all finding it hard to survive at the moment, because no one really wants to pay the kind of money for books that will keep them going." He spoke of how the Internet has driven book prices down, how bookshops have been closing one after another. Then he asked me how I was doing. As if to prove him right I told him that I was moving, because I can no longer afford to live in London. He commiserated with me and asked what I am going to do now. This is a question I have been asking myself. How will I continue to survive? I really don't know. At least, anyway, I will have a roof over my head. But who would want to be a writer now, when the world of books, and perhaps the world itself, is coming to an end.
We went our separate ways. I popped into an Ecuadorian greasy spoon and ordered a vegetarian full English breakfast, for my late lunch. I looked at my new purchase. I have got into the habit of reading so many books at once that I have instituted a policy of not starting any new books until I have finished reading a certain number, so I thought it would be a while before I could start reading this. But then I thought, what the hell, this book wants to be read, and it wants to be read by me, so I opened it and started reading.
There are few things in my life of which I am proud. I'm not proud of the fact that I'm socially inept, or that I've never had much money, or that I am so judgemental of people, or that, like a baby, still-born, or a beast with his horn, I have torn everyone who reached out for me, or that I have consistenly failed to seize the day (despite the fact that I should obviously be immensely proud of all these things). But if there is one thing I am proud of, it's the fact that I have never compromised in my writing. If I succeed at this, it will have been entirely on my own terms, and I will be able to count it a true victory. But I haven't succeeded yet. I am not recognised by the world as a writer sufficiently that I don't have to give any further account of myself. I have to justify my existence by doing other work, too. Some writers are able to work full-time and still write wonderful stories. In fact, I'm fairly sure that most of them simply have to. I honestly don't know how they do it. Having tried this myself, I have nothing but the utmost respect for such people. Unfortunately, I don't seem to be one of them. I remember now when I was in Japan, I had a conversation with a girl there that has proved highly prophetic. She asked what I would do when I returned to England. I said that I supposed I would have to work. She replied that she couldn't imagine me working. "Sugoku maipeesu na kanji," she said; "There's an incredible 'my own pace' feel about you." I have been working – but I am reminded very often that I do the work much slower than everyone else. I do really seem to be on a different time-track. My current work – a decision I made in order to make it possible for me to write – is part-time. But it does not pay my living expenses.
The future looks extremely uncertain to me. Perhaps I shouldn't be so proud of my lack of compromise in my writing. I actually think I'm incapable of compromise. And without compromise, the likelihood of me being able to make a living is reduced drastically. I sometimes think that my writing will be sufficiently recognised to support me the very moment that my miserable existence comes to an end. You know, death is a great career move and all that.
Speaking of death, these days I try to remind myself as often as I can that I could die at any time, so I'd better be satisfied with my life just as it is. Some people might anticipate another clause to that sentence: "I'd better be satisfied with my life just the way it is, or change it now." But the truth is, I don't really think I can change my life; I just don't seem to be a carpe diem sort of person. Or rather, I think the only possible way for me to change my life is through contemplation of death and acceptance. In fact, usually when I think of death, I feel ready to go. I feel like, yes, I did it my way, even if I have totally fucked things up. However, one thing keeps me going. I still haven't written enough. It's not to do with quantity so much, though partly. I just know that I haven't acheived my full potential in my writing yet. My brain truly is teeming, and my ideas for stories seem as numerous as stars in the sky. And one day, I feel, I will write something that magically comes off the page like nothing that's been written before. Perhaps I will never get there, but I do think that I am getting better and better as a writer all the time.
I think that in some ways I used to be more tolerant of what I see as bad taste. Now it seems to me criminal and corrosive. To vote for trash with your money is just one of the many ways to make the world a worse place. I would like to discourage it. For myself, I don't see the point of reading a book that's too popular. (I don't mean to imply that everything popular is trash, though that seems to be the general rule.) For instance, J.K. Rowling has enough readers already. She doesn't need me. I want to make sure that those endangered works are kept from extinction by having a home in the consciousness of one more human being – me.
Anyway, this is just a status report, really. You'll miss me when I'm gone. There are people I'll miss, too. There are, in fact, certain people I miss right now. I hope we get the time to get together. I hope that we can reflect on the fact we could die at any moment and still feel satisfied with who we have been and who we are.
This article is interspersed with Youtube clips that have been amusing or otherwise fascinating me lately.
Anonymous writes:When I hit 20 i made a conscious decision to do weightlifting, I mean serious regimented getting used to 20 kg (40+ pounds) with one arm type of thing. My mindset at the time was that the more times I lifted the weights the lighter it would eventually be so therefore the stronger I am becoming. So when I got used to 10 reps I will then venture for 20 reps. An I’m sure you know what happened. The more reps I did the heavier it became. So what am I trying to say? I see no end. Just keep at it whatever till you get picked up, taken, and the last words you thought of becomes the final thing a reader glimpsed and shut in their minds eye before sleep, before corruption or jest or its gone. Keep it up.
Well, it almost seems beyond me. I mean, choice seems beyond me. In a certain sense, writing seems like something very fragile that might be discontinued at any moment, but I have met many people who talk about wanting to write as something that they might do in the future. I am actually writing. Occasionally I talk about giving writing up, as something that I might do in the future. Somehow, right now, it seems unlikely. I really don’t know why. It seems like something beyond my control. Sometimes I am glad about that, and sometimes it seems like the source of all my problems. And then again, sometimes it seems like a very fragile choice that I am making that could change at any time.Good luck with the weight training.
Anonymous writes:
Well I am glad you feel that way about your writing. In fact with the exception of aspiring to be 10-years in the business Sun newspaper article writers I am glad to know of or meet anyone who feels that they ‘have’ to write to express themselves. I was going to post an essay on fictionpress.com titled: “why would anyone ‘want’ to write these days?” I speak of the emerging adults (generation x type) as opposed to the children of Orwell, and T.S. Elliot’s generation when there was a somewhat cultural structure. Why would anyone nowadays even consider writing as a means of expression? Is there still a place for the hunger artist Kafka wrote about? I tried to separate it from the obvious “having to do it” because of school papers. But then I took into consideration the monetary gains of being a writer; like for writing for the sun and co. So ill change the argument title to “why would anyone before they get paid want to be a writer in the George Orwell sense?”
(that is finding through literature the continuous need to illustrate oneself from personal introspections and observations about the world the writer inhabits). I know they exist, but I don’t know why. Apologies if I aint making sense here.
Well im 26 now, and kind of took it easy with the weightlifting. The secret for me is to have no intention when I lift. I try not to feel like I have to surpass myself, then maybe i can lose myself in it.
Hello.I once read a definition of Generation X (I don’t know if it was the definitive definition) as something like, “A generation who have felt so disenfranchised that they have lost all hope in being able to find satisfaction within human society and, unwilling to become part of the corporate treadmill, barely support themselves on a series of jobs for which they are hopelessly overqualified whilst pondering their failure to successfully pursue any of their artistic dreams.” Something a bit like that. It was specifically the phrase about taking a series of jobs for which they are “hopelessly overqualified” that stuck in my mind. Looking up Generation X on Wikipedia, I find that, by Coupland’s definition, I am too young to be Generation X, by one year, but I am certainly, “[someone] who wants to hop off the merry-go-round of status, money, and social climbing that so often frames modern existence”, which is part of Paul Fussell’s definition.Of course, I don’t really care whether I’m Generation X or not, since it’s something made up, anyway.I had a notion that I might somehow, atavistically, be the last of the romantics. I don’t seem to be, however, the last of the literary types. I know a number of people younger than me who are far more knowledgable about literature, and similarly passionate.Literature (and writers) are absolutely in a kind of wilderness now. I don’t know if there is possibility of recovery, since I think we have worse things to worry about at the moment anyway, such as, whether there is even going to be a future for people to write and read books in.I continually ask myself why I carry on. As I said, it doesn’t seem to be something of which I am in strict control. Maybe all my biological instincts have been diverted from their normal channels into writing somehow, since other humans seem to be breeding as pointlessly and reasonlessly as I am writing.
Anonymous writes:
Hello,
That generation X is described as:
“A generation who have felt so disenfranchised that they have lost all hope in being able to find satisfaction within human society and, unwilling to become part of the corporate treadmill, barely support themselves on a series of jobs for which they are hopelessly overqualified whilst pondering their failure to successfully pursue any of their artistic dreams.”
Is a pretty spot on summary of the reflection I get from media culture, and from countless years of living in western world city capitals. (Canberra Australia, London England, Ottawa Canada). And I’m sure all the TylerDruden accolaydes will agree on too. This is why I cant like my fathers time kind of music like Stevie Wonder/Aretha Franklin/Abba and other pillars of pre mid 80’s music. That kind of music though very good made a lot of sense, and were very accessible, however it makes more sense for me to dig music that makes less sense and not quite accessible. I dread at the fact that my Dad has had his job for over 30 years.
That last line you wrote is a killer one. Hey at least you are outputting eh? Why not?
Yes, I’m outputting. Thunderbirds are go! as they used to say. On Thunderbirds:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RzCB3VRruEMy own tastes in music are becoming nostalgic, in a desolate sort of way. And I still listen to Morrissey:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9BIHjBrA9Y
LOL on the TAG. Great timing with that clip!!!
There’s more where that came from. Here’s one that makes me go all goosepimply, not to mention filling me with a feeling of fragant and eerie distortions of time and sensual perception in an opulent, half-fabulous undersea palace unknown to more than a small number of human beings who have ventured to the far place where the sunken sea laps upon the shore of dream, or dream laps upon the shore of sea:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKX78GBVr9w
“Where the sunken sea laps upon the shore of dream, or dream laps upon the shore of sea”That’s very enchanting. Tiffany blue, pearl white, and gold are the colors that come to mind.So I take it even Thunderbirds have time out from saving the world for quick underwater rendezvous. Sure, what would saving the world be worth if you couldn’t serenade a harp playing beauty who doesn’t want to talk to you. She can’t speak because…why? Best part is when they cut to the guy in the uniform who’s swaying to the music. Great stuff!
Well, Aqua Marina was the femme fatale of the series Stingray:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E06cNv55jTsIt was the undersea version of Thunderbirds, also produced by Gerry Anderson. The heroes were WASPs (!!!!) – the World Aquanaut Security Patrol. Sounds scarily familiar. I think Aqua Marina can’t speak because she’s a mermaid, or a particular kind of male fantasy. Not sure which.Okay, I’ve just looked up the info:”During the course of the series Stingray encounters lots of underwater races, hostile and otherwise. The ‘Aquaphibians’, a submarine warrior race, appear frequently, often under the command of King Titan of Titanica (modelled on Laurence Olivier). In the pilot episode, Stingray is attacked by Titan’s forces and Troy and Phones are captured. They are rescued by Titan’s slave girl Marina (modelled on Brigitte Bardot), a beautiful mute young woman who can breathe underwater. Troy is immediately smitten with Marina, and Atlanta becomes jealous. Meanwhile Titan swears revenge for Marina’s betrayal. Marina becomes a regular member of Stingray’s crew, and later acquires a seal pup called Oink, who features in a number of episodes.”Atlanta is the other girl you could see in the song clip. I think the guy in uniform is her crusty, martial old father. Life as a member of WASP is complicated.
Okay, I thought Atlanta was Marina’s mother, observing the courtship, or the serenade. Well, that’s why she such a stern look on her face. The Stingray Into is great as well. “Anything can happen in the next half hour.” Then you see the fish following the ship. The production value is very good. Those guys must have had the best time putting those episodes together. And the music too, so urgent, critical, against the limited action of marionettes, although I didn’t see strings. What a laugh, fun stuff. Thank you.