"If you nail two things together that have never been nailed together before, some schmuck will buy it from ya." - George Carlin


Lately I have been rethinking my stance on originality in the arts.

Especially since the turn of the twentieth century and the rise of modernism, so much emphasis has been placed on a creator’s originality. Schoenberg’s atonal music, Kandinsky’s abstract art, Joyce’s stream of consciousness literature - all of them proclaimed as Great for doing something no one had done before. [Even though none of them was in fact the first to have done the thing, but that’s another story.]

Meanwhile, some creators are dismissed for looking too much like, or sounding too much like, so-and-so. By which they mean that the artist’s means of expression show clear influences. But what about the ideas they express using those means? What about the ways they please and communicate with the audience? Too often, originality is held up, not as an important value in art, but as the only value.

Shakespeare is known for, among other things, coining new words in his writing, which became part of the language. Hard for a writer to get more original than that. But, by this way of thinking, does this mean that a writer who invents new words is necessarily writing better stories than someone who simply uses the language as they find it?

In my youth, I dismissed some comic artists for simply being clones of some better-known artist. I did this without paying attention to how well they used this stylistic language to tell a good story. I look back at their work now and see that I was missing out on a lot that was valuable in what they did, simply because it didn’t “look new”.

When jazz pianist Jutta Hipp released her album At the Hickory House, it was dismissed by many for “sounding exactly like Horace Silver”. And yet, today, her album is a fave of mine, and I listen to it more often than any of Silver’s. Because I enjoy what she plays. It’s not like she has no ideas of her own, it’s not that every line she plays is a direct rip-off of something Silver played. She has a similar tone and touch, but she uses it to create music of her own. Which you need to get past the superficial similarities to appreciate.

So, I am finally reaching the stage where I can look at or listen to someone whose style is highly influenced, or even derivative, and not simply go, “They aren’t giving me an original style or technique.” Now, I ask, “What are they giving me? Do I find anything worthwhile in this work?” Of course, originality still has some value in and of itself. A satisfying work that is expressed in a new and unique way can become even more satisfying because of that. But there are other things to consider, is all I’m saying.

I finished my novel on the 7th and, looking back over it now, I find that, even if it is not as good as I hoped, it's not as bad as I feared.

I know I haven't gratituded in a long time. I know I keep telling myself I will do it every day. I know it's more effective the more ya do it. I know, I know, I know.

But I saw something today that reminded me about it, and here I am back on the horse. No good comes of berating myself for being remiss, so, rather, allons-y.

Today I am grateful that my notes on my next novel are coming together well, and I feel very prepared to tackle NaNoWriMo next week. Back in February I was so deeply stuck on this story that I gave it up. After writing four novels last year, I found myself unable to muster one. So I diverted myself into painting, and then my new comic strip. But things started shifting in late summer, and the story started pestering me again, and falling into place better. And now I am back in Writer Mode. [Not sure if a Real Writer like ginsu would consider me one, but IMHO I'm close enough for horseshoes.]

The way things look and feel now, I expect to be able to hit my 50,000 words next month, and go beyond, and finish this book. And after my production last year, no, I am not a failure for only writing one novel in a year, so there.

I've recently been rereading my novels to A) try and get back in gear for my next one and B) reacquaint myself with characters who are due to reappear. My books are rarely sexually explicit, but last night I was reading what is [so far] my only prolonged [chapter-length] sex scene, and something clicked with me. Something not just about how I write, but how I am.

Sex is something I revere. 

When I describe it, I describe it with reverence and respect. Not meaning coyly, with Victorian euphemisms or whatnot, but with an awareness of the spiritual beauty of its intense physical pleasures. And this got me thinking about how out of touch I feel with my culture at large, at least as it reveals itself to me online, which is where most of my interactions happen these days.

I find it distasteful when other people use childish or silly language to describe sexual things. Some people's sex scenes make me feel like I stepped in something when I read them, just because of their tone. It isn't the sex per se that disturbs me -- I'm not a prude -- but rather the "pearls before swine" disrespect. Similarly, degradation of any sort has no place in sex as far as I'm concerned -- worship is more like what feels natural to me. On a bad day, it even seems to me that saying that sex is "fun" runs the risk of trivializing it. But that's just me.

I'm not saying my way is better, just that I know what works for me and what doesn't. Not saying that people aren't free to like what they like. If people mutually enjoy calling their body parts stupid names or talking to each other like enemies, then so be it. My point is more that I feel so out of touch, all at sea on the ocean of sexuality. I see almost no representation of my perspective from anyone else out there. Is it a generational thing? Is the romantic point of view inherently quieter?

I dunno. But I have no plans to change my slant on it to get in tune with everyone else. I remain a stubborn cuss to the end.

I participated in NaNoWriMo again this year. After last year's efforts resulted in my first novel, I have continued to write in the year following (as you will know if you read this journal faithfully), and this month I was faced with writing my fifth.

I hit the 50K word count on Nov. 10, which memory told me was faster than I managed it last year. Memory was, in fact, mistaken, because when I look thru last year's archive, I see that I hit the 50K on Nov. 7 last year. Ah well. This time, I went on to write almost 15K more on Nov. 11 to complete the novel. [And never again will I cram that much into one day! I woke the next morning with aching hands and arms, and sandy eyes. Why subject myself to that when it isn't necessary? I just got so caught up in the rush of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.] Since then, I have read through it three times to proofread and make tiny tweaks. In any case, well ahead of the Nov. 30 deadline -- in both cases, I attribute my speed to preparing an extremely thorough outline beforehand.

As I sit here now, I'm not sure how I feel about these books. Ambivalent. They all sound like I wrote them. They are all part of a series of sorts, so I suppose a consistency of tone is a good thing. But I'm wondering if what I actually have is a consistency of voice, or a sameyness that could become a rut, if it hasn't already. On the other hand, I can't see myself writing something wildly different next time just because I feel I somehow owe it to someone, if it isn't the book I actually have in me. So far, I've been writing what I want, because I want. I'm making no effort to court a mass audience. I realize that no book is for everyone, and my books certainly aren't for everyone. And I eventually realized that all I'm hoping for is that I can find the people my books are for, without being particularly worried about how many of those folks there might be. If I can please five or six readers on a regular basis, I can be happy with that. As long as I am one of them, and so far I am. I do like my own books, and if someone else had written them, I would still like them. I guess that's the most important thing.

I also wonder if the fact that I don't concern myself with earning anything from them, or achieving what is normally understood to be success with them, makes me a dilettante. If so, I can live with that.

anticipation of NaNoWriMo -- can feel myself beginning to strain at the leash

completing the first draft and first edit on my fourth novel -- have already begun rough preliminary notes on the fifth

Radio Silence by Alice Oseman

getting a good review on my latest book