Many good and even grand things befell me at Cascadia Con, early this month: enough that I have been wondering, hard, to myself why I haven't posted an article on Reality Skimming to share the wealth with those of you kind enough to care, and interested enough to read commentaries here. Amanda reminded me that people really do read Reality Skimming during coffee last week at the Kizmat Cafe, where I gave her a copy of The Okal Rel Universe Anthology I, edited by myself and Virginia O'Dine. Irene, a woman I met at Sandra's book club in Prince George about a year ago, reminded me of it when she showed up to the Courtesan Prince launch in Prince George, and told me she had been following progress with the series via the website. At Cascadia Con, people I had never met convinced me that my work means something to others, in a heart warming way I am always freshly grateful for when I encounter it. Brianna's affection for ORU characters, Brian's presence at Cascadia Con, Janice's encouragement, the contact I am negotiating with through Windstorm Creative about a possible role playing game design, and dozens of other gestures of support and interest, small and large, all give me cause to celebrate being a writer and doing what I do with the Okal Rel Universe, in particular, which is something of a fourth child and old friend, and always will be special to me no matter what else I do or don't succeed at in the literary realm.

But instead of talking or thinking about the good things that happened, I've been caught up in feeling grumbly and vexed, as if I had some sort of mental indigestion or spiritual flu instead of being energized by the experience. I didn't understand what was the matter. But after getting in some work on Righteous Anger, today (which was curative) I think I have finally figured out how to come to grips with my cranky muse, and therefore, in the spirit of honesty that I firmly believe real art and real scholarship proceed from, I decided to get it off my chest. If I do, maybe I can get on with what I love to do without it interfering again--at least not until the next time the world gets under my skin.

My problem is that I need to believe life is worth living in order to keep doing it, and for me that issue has never begun or ended with either status or money. Respect is important and requires some status to maintain. And money is certainly as necessary for living as oxygen, in a material sense, but I can't motive myself to contend with the world somely on the basis of being able to buy groceries or draw breath, unless, I suppose, either function was suddenly threatened.

In short, the question isn't how much money you can get hold of, for indeterminate reasons, but what use you put that money to in the service of your particular ideas. Mine don't revolve around who has the largest bank balance. In fact, it has been my experience that the larger the ego or checkbook, the less worthwhile the person, with the usual allowance for welcome exceptions. Similarly, I find obsessive focus on the selling end of writing so far from motivating (however important, useful, etc.) that it actually messes up my joy in writing. Selling books is part and parcel, for me, of wanting to be read and have an influence, not an exercise in finding out how "big" I can get as some sort of end in itself. The whole pro-speak, know-the-right-people and scorn-the-slush-pile-wannabes attitude that one gets from some (but once again, not all) professionals in the field feels like being force fed chalk and then pitied for failing to appreciate the flavour. I do not, never have, and never will rate writers on the basis of how many copies they sold or how much money they made. Some of the writers who have meant the most to me, all my life, have done considerably worse in financial terms than ones that stay on the bestsellers list for weeks. There are bestsellers I have liked, as well. And I have nothing against success. Success is great! It gets you more readers, expands the reach of your voice and supports a writer's quality of life on the bread-and-butter side of the equation. But if the size of my check was my only concern, I wouldn't write. I wouldn't even be myself. And it saddens me that the world seems increasingly obsessed with pressuring people like me to feel sheepish or apologetic about it, as if failing to worship at the shrine of wealth and fame was not only a material mistake, but some sort of back-to-front error of moral judgement as well. For the sake of all I feel and believe in, and the weight my voice may lend to those things, I hope I succeed beyond my wildest dreams. But my motive for writing does not depend on it. To the contrary, I do not understand how to operate if I am meant to desire success for its own sake. I don't see the point of doing something as labour intensive and chancy as writing if you don't have more profound motives than getting paid. Given the hours invested over a lifetime, versus the fiscal rewards, the vast majority of writers would be better off selling french fries, financially, unless they rake in money on the side through some related activity. That does not persuade me to think less of them or to consider writing a less worthwhile activity than more profitable activities. (Selling drugs is pretty profitable, but isn't generally admired, for heaven's sake!) Life is complex, and it is certainly true that well paid writers are typically excellent craftsmen. It is true that full-time writers must earn a living and ought to be able to do well at it, if (which is a fair question to ask) we choose as a society to honour writers in financial terms. But as far as a one-to-one correspondence between Big Name Success and Quality Art, it just isn't that cut and dried. Not for me, in any case. And not for anyone who reads or writes for her own reasons--just as Ann advises young Gadar, the crack Reetion pilot disillusioned to discover that Sevolite highborns can out-fly her, about the importance of being a pilot for her own reasons. Sevolites may fly faster and last longer, but they aren't going where you need to be.

Now back to work on Horth and his own struggle with opportunity vs. integrity, despite--in his case--plenty of will and ability to succeed in the contests of status his own society offers him. :-)

And next time I post, I will dwell on the positive. But I must ration myself or I'll never get to the end of Righteous Anger by Oct 1, which is when I have promised the first draft to Brian.

posted by Lynda at 12:43   comment? e-mail lynda@okalrel.org 0 comments