Thursday 31 October 2002

Pic of the day: And I said: "Let there be stuff!" And there was stuff. But it wasn't really good stuff. Then again, I never claimed to be the big G. I just make stuff up because that's the kind of guy I am:

Amateur creator

While searching on the Net for NaNoWriMo related info, I eventually found a less than enthusiastic comment from an established author. Well, not so established that I had ever heard of her, and probably so have few others. But an actual, real, published author. Someone who has put a lot of work and soul into her writing, and after long hard years been rewarded by some measure of recognition. And in her article in Swans she gets really defensive, especially at the attempts at humor from the NaNoWriMo founder, who talks about writers getting all the chicks and the joy of mocking real authors. Well, uhm. I can see how that could be offensive if you take it at all seriously. I certainly had no intention of mocking Alma Rhomic. At least, not until now.

According to the Swans postscript, Rhomic is a trained microbiologists. Why didn't she stick with microbiology and do something useful so I don't need to run to the bathroom all afternoon? It's not like there are too many microbiologists in the world. Leave writing to those who are already famous. Clearly you shouldn't write unless you are already an Author...

And all those kids (and some grown-ups too) who run around playing football even though they are not professionals. They claim to have fun. Do they not stop to consider that they hurt the feelings of the Real Football Players, those who have dedicated their lives to the noble art of kicking shins? These kids, they run around kicking ball, and then they go home and do something different. They don't think of football when they eat and drink, when they go to sleep and when they wake up. They just have fun, and they even have the nerve to crack jokes about it.

Yet without all the amateurs that make a mockery out of the sport, there would be no pros. It's the soil out of which the flower grows; but most of the soil remain icky dirt. Such is the nature of soil and flowers.

It's the same with NaNoWriMo. Yes, most of it is dirt, and likes to be dirt. But hiding out in the general drunken clamor of mock writing, there's actually a lot of people who really want to write, who have tried again and again, who really love the words and the threads of a story. They just don't quite know how to go about it. Whatever they manage to write (finished or not) in a month will almost certainly be blushably bad. But it will give some of them an idea of what it is like to actually write. The work that goes into it, the thought that goes into it, the almost ecstatic joy when something goes right, the pain of running headfirst into a writer's block. Perhaps they will give up. Perhaps they will even gain a grudging respect for the ones who have persevered to make a living of sorts out of it. Or perhaps they'll just shrug it off and jump on the next fad. Remember, there is and must always be a lot more dirt than flowers.

***

Frankly, I don't think the NaNoWriMo mob will be much of a threat to the profession. I mean, let's say you actually managed to finish a "novel" of 50 000 words by the end of the month. Let's say you actually try to brag about it. People will of course ask you where it is published. "Er, it's not actually published yet." And then you will get that look of mixed scorn and pity that the mentally unstable get when they try to mix fantasy and reality. Kinda like when you declare that there's gonna be another flood and you've started to build the Ark in your back yard.

Get all the chicks, you won't.

***

As for myself, I don't really aspire to become a Real Author, or even to mock them. I write because I need to. Less so than when I was young – back then, I believe I might have turned literally insane if I had not the outlet of fiction – but still there is the whisper and the fretful movements of the muses in my brain, reminding me of new ideas for characters or events or worlds to build. Now and again I wake up from a dream or even just a nap, and there's a scenario in my brain.

I am never going to be rich or famous; I am not sure I would even want to. (This is, in fact, one of the things I wish to work on in this year's novel, if I live and have the health.) I feel that fame and riches are not goals in themselves ... just tools to attract a good quantity (for us men) or a good quality (for women) of the opposite sex. I firmly believe that the body has no higher goal than to live long enough to see its offspring grow up and take its place. That's all there is to the material world. My body certainly hasn't given up (it wants sugar! Sugar!) but it seems more resigned to the fact that I am never going to join the competition for breeding stud. Thus, most trappings of civilization are of little interest to me. As long as I have the basics, I may as well spend the rest of my time doing what I really want to.

And this year, I really want to try to write a novel. I think. But right now, I want to eat cheez doodles. ^_^