Hello, my friends and the occasional relative!

My collage assembly plus extras has gained some momentum, so I am making good progress.

There has in the process of doing this work been an ever-growing sense of unease. I’ve come to a conclusion or two about where it was coming from, and what to do about it.

It comes back, once again, to why I do this. I’ve debated this a number of times over the years, to more or less anodyne effect. I would be amused to actually look back and find I’m about to say the same thing I said 10 years ago, again! Consistency being the refuge of a fool, and all that.

But I’m not going to look back, too cringe inducing. *pause for site search* Oh look, I talked about something very similar… in my previous post!! 3 weeks away and I am still chewing that fat it seems.

Anyway, due to what I’m trying to do—produce page after page of unattributed speech where the reader will have no problem knowing who is speaking when and to whom (or if they don’t, it won’t really matter as they will get back on track quick enough, and the lack of distinction at times is more-or-less deliberate), I have had to acknowledge that I’m writing this basically for myself.

Because what I’m doing is advised nowhere on the internet. (Not the writing for yourself part, I’m sure there are plenty of instances of that, in a motivational/inspirational theme.) All the writing advice channels on YouTube say “do this, don’t do that, 3-5-7 things to do/avoid in order to write a great first line, chapter, ending, maintain pacing, keep reader interest,” etc. etc. etc. ad infinitum, a blinding blizzard of well meaning advice and griftiness, all rolled up into a confusing ball of I don’t care anymore. Sensory overload so intense I can’t even procrastinate productively like I used to. Hmm, that is a good thing, right?

I’m done with that. For now. Ellen Brock is my rock. I was taking notes ages ago, and stopped. Need to resume. Someday.

What was I saying? Oh yeah. I’m writing this book for me. I’m not trying to sell a million copies, or a thousand, or even ten. I’m writing for an intelligent audience that retains their attention span, is not hooked on tropes, has an interest in fantasy for grown ups that does not include sexual content, and likes old literature that can sometimes take its time, and hint, not broadcast. There are five (my estimation) of these people left in the world, and given my absolute absence of marketing (despite a recent avalanche of scammy emails offering to help me gain access to thousands of book clubs and now, in a newer twist, promising to make me cinematic trailers for my books – gee, what joy AI has brought to the world), they will not find me, nor I them. This is what it is.

So I’m writing this book to see if it can be done. That’s it. I’m also quite gleeful at the idea of this book having a Wizard of Oz (1939) moment, when attribution of speech is suddenly added, and the novel changes, to become a possibly two trick pony. Wild, baby, wild.

But why? Nobody’s going to read it, by my own admission. Why the glee? Because it will please me. And then I will finish it, after hiring a professional to question my choices everywhere in the text, and then I will release it. I won’t expect readers. I can’t, given my lack of effort to find them. I’m not going to ask friends or even the occasional relative to buy this one. It’s just going to be its own thing. Written and edited professionally, with a nice cover and a reasonable blurb. And that will be enough.

And this is the unease. Well, there are a few parts to the unease, one is why write a book that is so off putting to the majority of readers, a number of people that is apparently dwindling by the year anyway? Another is why pursue an art-form that may be dying, based on the aforesaid dwindling numbers, and the internet based exhortations to use ever more psychological writerly tricks to desperately retain attention and relevance, even as those same tricks create a new unsurprising homogeneity to the cohort of books written in such a fashion, so causing boredom (albeit a slightly new one) among readers anyway, causing them to turn away in ever increasing numbers? Vicious cycle, right there.

We’re not going to trick our way out of this slump. We’re going to write our way out. With actual writing, for real readers who give a fuck about the medium. Yep, there aren’t that many readers of that type out there, (we need a better educational system to create more, and a curb on screen time , and a , and a, but those are whole other kettles of fish) but they need to be nurtured, because once they are gone, we’re all tic-toc flavored toast, and we’ll all be doing what I am doing now, to be ahead of the curve. Writing for ourselves. Or perhaps hanging around at newly established ‘book galleries’ to look at single copies hanging on walls whilst smoking Gitanes and spouting pretentiously about how it moved us to anyone who makes the mistake of stepping within range.

So, from my virtual mama’s basement, (also a virtual book gallery (business concept, folks, don’t sleep on it!), with virtual cigarette smoke that is non-cancerous) I’m signing off. There’s a tree to decorate and Christmas cookies to eat. Later maybe some more writing, because I love doing it, and it brings me joy. That is enough, my friends, and increasingly, and this is part of my unease for all of you, it’s going to have to be.