When Master of Terror Jack Ketchum was asked if he had any words of wisdom for aspiring writers, he answered, “choose another profession.” And that doesn't just go for writing. Any artist, aesthete, or sub-cultural connoisseur must deal with the boulders, cliffs, and poisonous snakes that accompany the hike to success. My agent asked me to write letters to my heroes, asking for a blurb or nod in my general direction in support of our upcoming attack on the Publishing Syndicate. So far I've secured a TV writer for NBC, an Internationally-acclaimed journalist (Loaded, Cosmopolitan, Vanity Fair, The New York Post), and I’m pretty sure I can cajole my multiple-award winning Fantasy buddy M. A. Drake to help me out.
That’s not enough to cut the bullshit from the ice cream. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not whining—I do enough of that between my temples—I’m saying Madame Literature is wearing a goddamned chastity belt these days, where in the past you could find her drunk and horny and in the mood to warm a stranger. It still happens; and will happen with enough persistence and a butt-load of hard work. But what do I do in the interim, racing to open the emailed replies from authors too inundated with work and project content to give anything, let alone a strange up-and-comer, the time of day?
That’s not enough to cut the bullshit from the ice cream. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not whining—I do enough of that between my temples—I’m saying Madame Literature is wearing a goddamned chastity belt these days, where in the past you could find her drunk and horny and in the mood to warm a stranger. It still happens; and will happen with enough persistence and a butt-load of hard work. But what do I do in the interim, racing to open the emailed replies from authors too inundated with work and project content to give anything, let alone a strange up-and-comer, the time of day?
I have faith, minions. Faith.
And at the utterance of that caustic syllable—faith—we can find ourselves struggling through that turbid ocean in which theism, science, and spirituality collide. So I’ll stay out of that.
For now.
Faith is one of those things that comes after the storm, like ribbons of burning incense that waft from the headstone a freshly-tamped grave, where tears can still be glimpsed upon the dirt. Getting there is the hard part. But what do I do with the discouragement? The feeling that the mountain ahead is too dark and steep and unconquerable. In the beginning I usually sulk, turn off the light, avoid making eye-contact with my girlfriend and my dog, and imagine lifting the glass casement over the little red button and swallowing the world and its problems under the nuclear umbrella of a mushroom cloud. I come to my senses eventually; that is the nature of order and chaos.
The world, solar system, and known universe are all pieces in a self-correcting organism. Imagine them as the head, thorax, and abdomen of a cosmic insect that preens itself from time to time, chewing the dead skin to clear paths for fresh growth. This is the truth of things. And yet truth can be forgotten ... so I wait.
And with time I remember.
When the clouds clear I review my failures and ask for patience, take a look at each rejection letter, examining its motivation. When an author or editor is too busy, I let it pass . If I had something to do with it, I bend a critical eye (as painful as that can be) and try to change what remains in my power to amend. I have choice here: I can be one of the "victims" we're always reading about, or I can shit and get off the pot. But this doesn't just go for writing.
Which of you hasn't felt the flash-burn of circumstance? The death of a relative, or a relationship, or a dream? Not a one of you. Because the process of evolution requires turbulence. Friction is the God of creation, my pretties: the destruction, and inevitable perfection that rises from the dusts.
So then: what if I were to tell you that all your weaknesses, all your mistakes, were in preparation for a metamorphosis? What if your opaque sack of circumstance is but a cocoon? If you can by the metaphor, why not learn from the darkness, prod yourself, become at ease with the contour of your individuality? It's a spiritual (and psychological) truth that until acceptance is exercised there is no hope of overcoming.
So I accept that Joe R. Lansdale is too busy to read my book. I accept that Stephen King is impossible to get a hold of unless you call a favor in from the Horned Infernal Daddio. I accept that Peter Straub’s email isn't currently working, and I still haven't heard back from Joe Hill.
And I keep moving, prodding my wounds until their shape is a comfort against my fingers, studying the bloodstains for some key to avoiding the next slash ... and most of all, growing as a person. Life is a mountain. But success is a fucking Himalayan mountain, and everyone knows you need a Sherpa to help you up that sucker.
So, minions, have a little faith. That the connective tissue which holds the universe in place through its ceaseless expansion, a thing responsible for arranging the ascending notes in a musical scale, the immutable laws and symbioses which span like crystal webs to enrapture us, knows what it is doing. That we're taken care of.
That, despite the scarcity and fear pumped out of the MEDIA MACHINE by the megaton, there is enough for all of us.
FOX, NBC, CNN, BBC, NPR … suck it.
Radio Silence.
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