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johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
For a few years now, I've been saying that [the recently late] Alice Munro is my favourite writer. Now, news is coming out that calls her personal character into question. [It also suggests that efforts were made to suppress this news while she was alive?] This brings us once again to the issue of, "What do we do when good art, art that we love, has been made by a person who is not good, who we find it hard to love?"

There are various levels of separating the art from the artist (or not), and we all vary in how much we are able or willing to do this. Ultimately, it's a subjective and personal decision. I've come to realize that, for me, it's better and more accurate for me to say that I am a fan of a creator's work rather than a fan of a creator. I'm now trying harder to express myself in that way.

And now I'm seeing people going back to Munro's work, re-reading it in a new light, and wondering if they were inadvertently approving of messages counter to their own values. In this case, I don't have so much of an issue, I guess. For me, it isn't so much what she wrote about, or what her message was, as how she wrote it. Her writing has an elegant and insightful economy to it: she never sounds like she's straining to sound Writery®. That's what I like about her sutff. Those times when she wrote about dubious people doing dubious things, I never took it as approval of those things — more an awareness that there are people like that out there.

And now it turns out that she was one of them, so maybe we shouldn't be so surprised.


P.S.: I can understand boycotting an artist when we learn things like this about them, not wanting to contribute to them financially, etc. But, once they're gone, that whole aspect sorta becomes moot, I think?


johncomic: (Moss)
WARNING: a lot of wanky shop talk about comics, but with a more general observation at the end )

johncomic: (Sweets)
Today I gave up on reading a novel [something I am more willing to allow myself to do nowadays than when I was younger].

It's very short, more technically a novella — about 120 pages — and I got about halfway through it before deciding I'd had enough. The author is, as it happens, a very well known showbiz personality, whose work on screen I have always enjoyed immensely. And, when seeing him on talk shows, I always found his “real life self” to be warm and engaging, although in a quiet way. I guess I was expecting to find his writing to be similarly warm and engaging, and ended up disappointed in that regard.

All along, I was thinking about why this story wasn't connecting with me, and finally I think I figured it out. This guy's writing, at least in this book, is so cold and aloof and disconnected, I got an undercurrent from it that “I don't really care about any of these characters or what happens to them, none of it interests me, so I have no idea why any of it might interest you.” 

This is the first time I can recall being consciously aware of this: part of what I respond to in any creator's work is the love with which they made it. It can be a story, or a painting, or a musical composition, or a blanket — anything, really. But, on some level, I get a sense that the artist was emotionally engaged with their work. “I like this, it means something to me, and if I'm lucky it will mean something to you, too.” I never realized before that I somehow pick up on this unspoken sense of the creator's love, and that this enhances my own appreciation and enjoyment of what they have made.

This may all well be nothing more than my imagination — but, for me, it's a real thing to be taken into consideration. And it reminds me to care about my own work.
johncomic: (Moss)
"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.

johncomic: (Face of Boe)
messages from the cosmos

Over the last few weeks, I have received numerous insights and tips from articles, books, posts, intuitions, etc., and they seem to overlap in constructive fashion to help me push through a recent creative roadblock. Here are some:
  • I am enough.
  • The act of creating has positive and nurturing value, quite apart from the resultant creation.
  • The experience of creating is a form of mindfulness that has meditative value.
  • A work isn't a failure simply because it isn't the sort of work that will find a mass audience. I am allowed to like it, and even be the only one who likes it.
  • We can reframe self-criticism as ambition: “my work sucks” becomes “I want my work to be better”. This completely sidesteps the issue of whether or not we can objectively view how good our current work might actually be. I can actually be producing decent work, or good work, and still want it to be better. It doesn't have to be dissatisfaction with what I've done; it can be a desire to learn more and to grow.
johncomic: (Moss)
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.
johncomic: (Moss)
rocking NaNoWriMo for my third consecutive attempt -- just past four days in and I am closing in on 30K of the 50K word goal. I got this!

[but yeah my hands and arms are sore and tired...]

johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
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 [personal profile] 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.
johncomic: (roundhead cartoon self-portrait)
Although I am best known for creating comic books, and my love affair with them goes back decades, comic strips [the ones that appeared daily in newspapers] have also been important to me just as long. Before I started buying comic books with any regularity, I was reading the funnies every day. And it was while I was reading a comic strip that I had my epiphany and realized that I wanted to be a cartoonist.

my history with comic strips )

TIL

Jun. 3rd, 2020 10:01 am
johncomic: (Dawn French)
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.

johncomic: (Frank)
I am currently reading The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren, and am about five or so chapters in at the moment. Last fall I read my first Lauren book, Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating, and I fell for that book hard. I re-read it after New Year's and fell harder. So, in a sense, this current book has a lot to live up to, and I am beginning to suspect that it will not.

By the end of Hazel's first chapter, I was in love with her and couldn't wait to see what happened with her. (More to the point, she happens to be the type of character that I usually find irritating: the fact that I found her lovable instead is a testament to Lauren's skill.) Today, several chapters into Olive's story, I, well... I don't dislike her. She's okay, I guess. I'm interested enough to keep reading, but I'm not compelled. I simply don't find Olive as captivating as I found Hazel.

And this got me thinking: I will bet you that Lauren (both members of that auctorial duo) love Olive. They found her story compelling enough to want to tell it. But, so far, I am already convinced that I will like this book by the time I reach the end, but I won't love it the way I love Josh and Hazel. [The characters and the novel.] This one isn't connecting the same way for me.

Which leads me to further thinking: I like all my characters. I like their stories enough that I want to tell them. But this doesn't mean that other people will.

Does this mean I have failed as a literary craftsman? I don't think so. What it means, I think, is that it simply underscores the fact that not all things are for all people. Just because one Lauren novel is for me, and very definitely so, doesn't mean that all of them necessarily will be, or have to be. (Although experience teaches us that a creator who makes something that clicks for you is more likely to make other things that will also click for you.) Just because you don't like my book doesn't mean it's a bad book. It only means that it's not for you. 

In recent years I have come to rethink (very seriously) the whole notion of good and bad art. Good art communicates and connects -- with someone, somehow. But it will never do so with everyone. But we speak of good and bad art -- I have done so myself, long and often -- as if they are something far more objective than they can actually be.

Which brings me back to a point I keep returning to again and again in recent months: let people like what they like, and you go ahead and like what you like.
johncomic: (Frank)
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.

johncomic: (Frank)
Bear with me a second:

Back in midsummer, I finished my fourth novel, The Night Shift. During the course of my research for it, I was introduced to the paintings of Gabriele Münter and something clicked. Just as happened last fall, when I was first reading Alice Munro, and suddenly felt a sense of inspiration along the lines of "I could do this" [I don't think I would have started writing fiction without her example], this year I found myself looking at Münter's work and thinking, "I could do this, too".

The idea finally coalesced into another new project: when they are published, my novels will need covers, and I have decided to paint them. Since then, I have been slowly girding my loins, preparing to learn to paint. Part of that learning has been wandering around taking reference photos of my surroundings -- I have a rough idea of the subject matter for my covers, so I know what sorts of views I want to capture. I have been playing photographer for a few weeks now.

I am grateful for the renewed appreciation of [and pleasure in] light and colour which I am gaining thru my photography, and for the increased mindfulness and "being in the moment" this project has brought into my life. I am finding this process more enjoyable and enriching than I imagined.

view from my front door
johncomic: (Sweets)
anticipation of NaNoWriMo -- can feel myself beginning to strain at the leash
johncomic: (Frank)
looking back on my obsessions )
johncomic: (Frank)
completing the first draft and first edit on my fourth novel -- have already begun rough preliminary notes on the fifth
johncomic: (Uncle Old Guy)
the end of the heat warning -- and making better progress on Novel #4
johncomic: (Moss)
getting an excellent bargain on long-sought books
johncomic: (Frank)
getting a good review on my latest book

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