Mira wrote:Rachel, I could be wrong, but it doesn't really sound to me like you're interested in a different perspective or a dialogue. That's alittle sad to me, because I was trying to communicate something you might find valuable. However, you seem set on your own course and comfortable with it, so I'll just wish you the best.
Mira, I didn't mean to come across as stubborn or hostile. I'm more afraid and disillusioned and doubtful of my own abilities and prospects for the future. Mostly because I don't like who I am, though I like my ideas and what's on my creative to-do list, but would rather those creative to-dos become "dones" and "well-dones" without a lot of "pick me, pick me!" from the writer/artist herself. Koontz, as mentioned in the initial post, became
the Dean Koontz with a safety net from his company, rather than all by himself, which is what he'd have to do today. If he went by WWJDD (What would J.D. do?) or like Pynchon, apply paper bag directly over the forehead, there's no way he'd be where he is today.
The market sucks right now, not just the publishing market but the economy in general. I realize that, and that's a big worry for me too. I personally don't have a "course" that I'm set on; rather I'm flailing and sailing without a compass. I'm also very nostalgic for a time I wasn't even a part of because I wasn't born yet; the halcyon days when J.D. Salinger could squirrel himself away to his cabin in the woods, and
Catcher in the Rye still be a bestseller and not forgotten. Maybe it was because the book inadvertently marketed the author's personality, since Holden Caulfield is often considered one of the most famous author surrogates in history. It's gonzo publishing, and no one should have to be as much a character as Hunter S. Thompson, at least not publicly, in order to be accomplished/recognized.
But in order to receive accolades in this gonzo publishing era, one has to basically prostitute him/herself all over the internet and advocate for oneself, because there's no Maurice the pimp who's going to help you out and take notice if you aren't already, well, "active." (It's so much like Vegas that I do both fear and loathe it.) I lament that I wasn't "grandfathered" into the days before 24/7 marketing prospects where an absolute requirement for "breaking in," and I also don't think it's that pub co's don't
have the money to spend on bolstering a new author, but that they just don't
want to spend that money and "gamble" on something/someone new. The name can practically sell itself if it's Grisham, Evanovich, King or the aforementioned Koontz. They don't need any PR from the companies; other, newer writers do. I don't feel a writer him/herself should have to be Clio-worthy or do the whole social networking thing in order to be accomplished or a household name; I don't think a future Grisham should have to familiarize him/herself with the DMCA and fair use regarding his/her Facebook page or blog. Eugenides can't stand social networking websites, but then, he's Eugenides; his last name itself sounds like some one-named ascetic: Aristophanes, Ulysses, Eugenides. I don't understand why writers have to "hustle" and network with anyone other than the people who are going to put the actual book on shelves; I get that it's readers who will take them off, but that to me sounds like when presidential candidates shake voters' hands and kiss babies and put themselves up for embarrassing interviews just to get votes. Disingenuous, pointless, and... phony.
I sure would like to be the next Grisham or Evanovich, but I don't want to be a people person or some hapless idiot on Twitter, amid the likes of Ashton "Dude Where's My Fact-Checker" Kelso, Schweddy Baldwin, the
Jersey Shore cast and Justin "The Omen" Bieber. It strikes me as bitterly ironic that writers actually embrace this stuff, and well established ones at that; Margaret Atwood has got to be in her 80s and she's on Twitter. Salman Rushdie's probably getting RSS feeds from Al Jazeera to make sure Cat Stevens isn't following him like a moon shadow on Four Square. Neil Gaiman married some punk rock singer he met through that site. And an actual
book derived
from the spit that Twitter says,
Expletives William Shatner Told Me or something to that effect. Meanwhile J.K. Rowling has a total of about four tweets, all of them saying something like "I'll get around to this at some point." But again, they're already established names probably just doing this for fun. People nowadays who want to be the next Atwood or Rushdie are absolutely mandated to do this, and in doing so waste time they could be writing something worthwhile rather than advertising their favorite brand of unmentionables. (Which I'm sure I could be too if I weren't blabbering about all this.)
I guess I'm ranting in a big way against corporate America, against the Internet, against the "15 megabytes of fame" culture that the Internet has basically created, and against the fact that resistance is futile, you will be assimilated, or perish in obscurity. And that it's every man, woman, child and Muggle for him/herself, no more hand-holding or babysitting from the big boys; blog or be damned, and by the way no one wants to read your book anyway because muahaha, we the Twitterati have social-engineered a world of twits who are now physically unable to comprehend anything past 140 characters. Quote the fail whale, nevermore!
But... I'm also ranting with despair in that I feel like I'll be left in the dust unless I force myself to struggle with Facebook and Twitter. Neither of which is a guarantee for Grisham-level status, leading me to wonder if those days are over, once and for all, no matter how many tweeps or likes or thumbs-up or fingers thrown one has. And that social networking itself is cheapening and degrading, much like stripping or prostitution, the real kind, are too. I sure would like to reach that status, but because I'm not at all
self-confident, I doubt if I ever will. I wouldn't mind face-to-face networking with someone(s) who could pick up the slack; there's some company "Writer's Relief" that purports to handle a lot of it, which I see advertised in everything from
Poets & Writers to even
The New Yorker, although nowhere in these companies' TOSes does it say that someone can "ghost blog" in your stead to help you become the next Grisham. It used to be a given: John Updike is not your "pal" who you can ask "boxers or briefs." J.D. Salinger isn't going to a Yankees game with you. And no, Virginia, Ms. Woolf is not including anyone in her visit to Orlando, nor bringing back any souvenirs that rhyme with orange.

Robert Frost may talk about "mending fences" but he sure isn't heading next door to visit with the Bumsteads. There was a distinction, that the writer/artist/whoever could extricate him/herself from 99% of "the real world" and only grant interviews to
The Paris Review and the like, which allowed him/her to be at that certain level because s/he wasn't being dragged down by the mundane. Atwood and Rushdie on Twitter is like Sylvia Plath talking about baking cookies in
Good Housekeeping, or Salinger himself, in a '70s issue of
Tiger Beat, fiercely rebutting any rumors of David Cassidy playing Holden Caulfield on the big screen.
And I'm also wondering if there's anything I, or anyone for that matter, can do, to get to that Grisham level as though one could party like it's 1989, to hire someone else to do the stuff you don't/won't/can't do and Milli Vanilli yourself into the hall of fame, or even like it's 1999 and make off that the Internet had shut down all over the world and Y2K had happened. To completely ignore social networking and personal self-promotion (not promotion of oneself by someone else more expert in the matter). I am struggling, a lot, feeling compelled to do this whole promotional thing
before even attempting to send things out for submission, and without anything, not even a draft, in hand or on disk, subsequently being exposed as the Luddite with no clothes, which to me is even worse than being a stripper all over the Internet.
I feel like I'd be -- if not am -- a phony and a fraud already and I feel stuck, a catch-22 in a field of broken dreams. Seriously, what can I do? What, if anything, can I really do?
