pevanapoet1

The recent interactions with the writers and editors and readers and altogether intelligent and interesting people have set my thoughts to reviewing some matters regarding storytelling about which I have long held some strong opinions.

Call it a genre writer's rant.
Maybe I'm just whining.
Perhaps it all runs to the same thing in the end.  But such as it is; here are some thoughts.

I wrote Poets of Pevana as an inspired outgrowth of a series of eclectic on-line and real-time interactions.  I had always written, but never felt secure enough to attempt a full on novel.  I had always written poetry, but rarely attempted to offer it up to a wider audience.  The magic of the words was enough to sauce my days and added to the things I brought into the classroom--making the "day job" more intrinsically palatable.  Oddly enough, I don't really 'teach" poetry.  I use my affinity for the form to color my instruction.  It shows up in how I interpret the various written forms to which I introduce my students.  I think the affinity colors how I read just about everything--from Hamlet to Speak, so to speak (small coffee induced pun). In the end the result, even after nearly 25 years in the classroom, is I still have fun with words.  There is something eldritch about the play inherent in words, and when I see it in the work of the writers l like, it affects me in ways that goes almost beyond the ability of words to define.

Almost. 


I think Poets emerged at a time when the rhythms of my life required it.  It was an organic thing that evolved as the place spoke to me.  I had the pie-slice plan of a bunch of lives intersecting at a certain point in time, but the end result was a complete surprise.  I am sure I not revealing anything earthshattering there, but just to be able to say that I have shared in the experience others have written about (and better) makes me feel connected.  To be able to say, at least to myself, "Yes, I GET it, now, and it feels good."  And to begin to feel more at ease with it, to begin to access it and all that 'it' provides for the creative outlet feels even better.

And that is why books two and three happened.  I knew there was another tale in Poets.  I even started it soon after finishing the draft of the first novel, but then life intruded--the scope of what I would have to attempt daunted me--and I let it sit.  In retrospect, I realize I had done myself a disservice because those characters haunted my waking hours, invaded my sleep and rattled their chains and nuances of intention to the point where I knew I had to do something about it.  Again, retreaded ground for all who write, I know.  But for me it was not a question of writing the next book because I had to--it was more an awareness that I was happiest WHEN I wrote--that I taught better, that I laughed more, that I did not take everything too seriously--like parenthood, raising teenagers, dealing with the people.  When I had a project I saw things better.  Pretty simple, actually.  Eventually, I finished a draft of King's Gambit last October.   It came quickly once I committed.  I actually had more of a linear plan this time.  I knew what I was getting myself into and I found myself relishing the effort.  Less giggling but more awareness.  I was proud--I admit it--I like my own stuff!  I do not know if anyone else will, but I am starting to really like the idea that I will get a chance to find out!   Book three came as a complete surprise.  The draft for Path of the Poet-King was finished by the following April.  Rattling chains--questions unanswered--interesting people who requested more time and words--all the stuff of the generic incantation, right?  What I was most intrigued by was not that I did a third effort, but that I did so with more discipline than before.  I was less afraid of the plunge, so to speak.  I wrote every night--during a busy school year ( I assign and grade an average of 1200 essays a year in my classes--all within the first 24 weeks of a 36 week school year.  Words, words, words...they are inescapable) and found the process more fun and fulfilling than ever before.  As a hobby--this was better than golf! 

I can see why authors who tap into that cosmic conduit fall in love with their craft.  It feels great, as I said above, to start to begin to GET it. 

And now to the real reason for this rambling rant.  I absolutely HATE it when authors abuse that connection to the story.   I feel let down, insulted and abused when I detect insincerity in the words.   Tolkien lamented that LOTR was too short.  And yet he felt no obligation to go and extend it beyond its bounds.  He was a true gentle-hobbit in that he knew where he and his story belonged and its boundaries were as settled as the Shire.  What additions he allowed himself, much like the extension of the West Farthing, were acceptable, smallish, helpful--tantalizing without being dogmatic or overwhelming.  In a way, his lapses as a writer helped create the landscape that so many others have continued to explore. 

And I wonder if perhaps the succeeding generations of explorers haven't at least partially botched the job.  I think the evolution of the publishing industry has also influenced the trend toward botchingness (new word! alert Websters!).   For so long, the writing craft resisted the kind of sickness that has infected the music industry.  Stories 'found' an audience.  Music--in my opinion since about the late 60's--increasingly played 'to' an audience.  How many songs can we identify that lament that fact?  Personally, I blame the BeeGee's, but not because I don't like their music.  It was because they changed their music rather than using their music to create change.  Big difference.

What I see these days in so many forms--is a proliferation of SAMENESS.  The world has become aflicted with the concept of TREND.  Has the publishing industry morphed into an incarnation of what the music industry did?  That arena is in a shambles.  Publishing houses are contracting.  Folk want to blame the internet--but I wonder if the blame should be directed more deeply.  In fact, maybe the internet will be the salvation of both music and writing.  If one digs deeply enough, one can find awesome music untainted by corporate directives, and small publishing houses still flourish, owned, operated and staffed by gifted, far-seeing people.  And I say bravo to that.  Perhaps the salvation of the concept of "story" and storytelling will be saved by the niche, boutique publishers whose vision is connected more closely to the mission.  How many Walmart clones in the business world do we need?  Is what is happening around us yet another unlooked for byproduct of the age of globalization?  If the world winds down to tapiocca, do we lose even our stories?  If writers get more concerned about sales and trends, do they lose control of their stories?

What happened to the story in Jordan's Wheel of Time?
What happened to the truth in Meyer's "thing"?
How the hell did Paolini's over-hyped vomit ever, ever get beyond fire tinder?
Is the next Vampire novel REALLY necessary?  Does it REALLY tap into the cosmic truth?

Apologies to fans of the above authors, works and genres, but you have to admit--gluttony thy name is...

Is Orwell laughing at us even now?