I've posted this video before, I know. Watch it again, please. Take five minute. It's of more actuality now than it's ever been before. There has been several occurrences of authors misbehaving last month, both self-published and household names. Both struggling and successful. I won't name names, because we all know the principal protagonists of this sad episode in publishing. By misbehaving, I'm making deliberate usage of an euphemism here. What was triggered at the Harrogate Festival unveiled horror of juvenile insecurities from some established writers. If you've been out of the loop, you can catch up here, but please don't bring the ethic debate back here, because it's not the goal of this post. I've mulled this post over and waited a few weeks deliberately, because I wanted to detach myself from the emotional immediacy of the subject and address the issue from a broader perspective.
Why do we think there is scarcity in arts?
We're all guilty of it, or at least we have been at some points. It's something I fight back every day myself. We, human beings, see everything as finite objects. Our possessions, our futures, concepts, ideas, everything both real and abstract. We're wired to be this way. Everything is the proverbial pie and we want the biggest possible slice before there's nothing left but scrapes. Get the whole pie to ourselves, if possible. But is this the case for arts, namely writing? Is there a finite amount of success out there for fiction writers?
Before answering this question, you have to define what success is for you, as an artist. Because it's been established there is a thing such as economic scarcity. That's why you will never own a mansion, a private jet and a pro football team. At least, it's unlikely you do all at once and if you do, it means ten or more people never will, because you have a bigger share of a finite resource. Money. But is this the reason why you write? Do you write fiction because you want to own nice things? Of course not, it seems silly when you say it like this. Financial security and eventual prosperity is a symptom, a byproduct of a successful writing career. Yet, the idea of it is the profession worst enemy, especially in the ePublishing era. It rushes incomplete manuscript on the market, it makes writers, editors and publishers settle for less than excellence, because the artistic intent comes after monetary gain.
But artistic scarcity doesn't exist. If you can't find success in writing, painting, dancing, acting or whatever is your artistic endeavor, it's not because the neighbor took it from you. It's because what you do doesn't stand out from what he does. The sole factor that will change your fate is how hard you will work on the craft, to create something that is truly original and 100% yours. Great writers always find readers, no matter what. Before I'm a writer, I'm a reader and if you look at my book shelves, you wouldn't say I have limited financial means. Dennis Lehane, Chuck Palahniuk, Lawrence Block, Frank Bill, Chuck Klosterman, Hilary Davidson, Henry Rollins, Joe Lansdale, Donald Ray Pollock, Megan Abbott, James Ellroy and many more living, working writers found their way over there, because they have focuses on crafting something that was truly their and thoroughly superior and enjoyable. Their work stood out and therefore, they found a way to my shelves. More often than once.
Why would you stray outside the path you've worked so hard to build, just to trip another runner? Run faster. If you can't run faster than him, hit the gym and work these legs. It doesn't mean the other is an asshole if you can't outrun him, it means you don't have the cardio and the physical tools yet. I'm using a shoddy metaphor here, but what I mean is that taking the time to write book reviews under pseudonym to flatter yourself and slander "the opposition" is giving hard proof that you don't have the focus on your own uphill battle, like the people you're attacking do. You're letting alien preoccupations between you and the work. You're poisoning your own relationship to what you do with useless parasite thoughts. You're being weaker than the writer who leave it all in his/her book. It's the only thing that should matter to you. Leaving it all in the book.
For the last year/year-and-a-half, I've been a member of the online crime fiction community, through Dead End Follies, Twitter and my short stories. I have found tremendous people, who have taken interest in me, who helped me become better as a writer and a human being and gave me a chance at being published. I have made friendships as solid as the internet allows them to be. But I also found new insecurities, insanely mean people and the numerous mind-numbing ordeals of social media. As great as the community was/is to me, the only thing that matters is the work. The fiction. I will live and die by my ability to stand out and I will stand out by my ability to do the fucking work best. Right now, I'm doing all right, but I can do better. I can always do better. I refuse to let my own negativity parasite my relationship to my work. Who's with me?