On Writing and the Ark

Hail readers!

Today I bring to you my musings on the Ark. It is proving a difficult endeavour—as any such work ought be, in truth. However, one question in particular poses a special kind of difficulty—that being: in what manner ought the Ark be written? Should it be formal, and (were I unkind in my interpretation) full of flosculations? Or should it be tight, informal... but at the same time, lacking in eloquence and vivid description?

The question may be phrased in a different way: should it be mainstream, or literary?

Mainstream, Literary... or Both?

It seems I have fallen fowl to the apparent dilemma plaguing many a writer. On the one hand, I wish to write beautiful prose, and words of elegance and wit; on the other, I worry that I am too formal, too complex in my vocabulary and manner of expression. I worry that I am too dense.

The mainstream writers may say: but Alex! The realm of literary fiction is a small one; and what good are words, if they have no readers? Is is not the reader, who defines the poem?

The literary writers will no doubt reply: but even if your words find solace only among a few; even if you are not blessed with riches and fame and the adulation of the masses... surely it is worth bringing beauty and imagination to those erudite few?

Both arguments are to some degree valid. I, for one, am usually of the former disposition; I do believe that words are best when sampled by the many, not the sanctimonious few. And yet... aesthetic prose, and words written free of any consideration for audience sensibilities, can be powerful.

But to frame the discussion in such terms ignores a fundamental truth: that beautiful tales are formed both by beautiful words and expert execution. The novel is not the poem; it cannot partake in exercises of writerly practice, or of vain exhibitionism. Or in other words—it cannot be written purely for the sake of it. It must convey a story, a message within its lines and sentences.

But nor is a good tale composed merely of anodyne phrasing and lackluster prose. It is the strange nature of writing: it is not merely the what which creates the tale, but also the how.

To be mainstream and to be literary, therefore, is no contradiction. On the contrary: truly good novels possess the qualities of both.

But What of the Ark?

The Ark is in some difficulty as of present; for I now suspect that the language which it employs, and the manner in which it is written, is indeed too much of the literary and not enough of the direct. Here—an example:

For a moment, I’m surprised. Not because I didn’t see him as a poet—he’d have to be to quote Dante in Italian—but because there is something at once so inopportune, and yet so felicitous, about it, that I cannot help but laugh.

Are the latter clauses too keen to employ rare words? Is the expression too stitled, too formal; too High English, even for poetic Casey—a sixteen year old boy? There are numerous concerns as to what audience would be interested in both the premise and the manner of writing; and questions too, concerning the aspect of believability.

And yet, such questions aside, it must always be remembered that bad words may be taken away; but that good words cannot be invented by the editorial mind. Also, the Ark is no ordinary tale; and its characters are not ordinary teenagers. There is nothing ordinary about the brilliant. No great tale ever became great by being average.

So what are we to take from this? Perhaps some of these phrasings will be altered; some words replaced with simpler equivalents. But nor is this to say that the words of the Ark, and the tale brought by its words, need careful manipulation by cynical purveyors of finance.

A tale is a tale is a tale—to paraphrase Gertrude Stein—and it must be written both for greatness and for readability. The two are not contradictory, and neither can one come at the expense of the other; true brilliance lies in both.

The Artist and the Art

Art. It is all around: in the breathtaking magic of nature’s own beauty; in poetry; in music—and, you could say, in life itself.

I consider myself an artist. Perhaps it is foolish of me. Perhaps, even, art is an illusion; a veil of colourful perception over grey reality. But that’s a terribly depressing thought, isn't it?

Whatever may be said for art (much; I have written another essay on it) so too there is much to be said for the artists themselves. For they—we—are strange, wonderful people: devoted and dedicated (often seemingly beyond reasonable limits), intelligent—for the most part at least—and, in a way, quite special.

I don't believe we experience life in the same way. Where you see emptiness, we see possibility; where you give up, we soldier on; and where you see banality, we see magic.

I am not certain as to whether we merely interpret the world differently, or whether we do indeed create beauty and power where there was none. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between. But regardless: this piece will focus primarily on what it feels to be an artist, not on art itself. (The aforementioned essay will serve as a primer; and for more, well, give me some time...)

How Does It Feel?

In a word: intoxicating. In a few more: liberating, but difficult.

Allow me to elaborate. The first thing you need to understand: art is hard. Writing in particular I believe to be very difficult—though of course that’s debatable—but all art is, to a degree, tough.

You can’t just sit down and write a book. You can’t just grab a brush and start painting. To create something worthwhile, more is involved. You need a kind of tenacity that is beyond all too many; you need belief in the self, fire in the heart, and the power to create.

You need magic.

That said, art is a blessing as well as a curse. Sure, it can take—boy it can take—but you must think of it like this: imagine your favourite work of art. It could be a book, a song, a drawing; it doesn't matter. What does: the feeling. Think of the time when you experienced it—when you felt something akin to discovery, to meeting a new friend; to finding love.

Now imagine how it would be like to have created it. To have experienced those passions—those melodies, those greens of newfound life—not as an observer, a spectator; but as the magic behind it all.

Can you imagine that? I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t. Imagination is, after all, a power great in few.

My Art

It is said that artists create what they most desire in art. There is truth in this: I desire magic, and worlds of possibility; I write fantasy.

And yet, my art contains a great deal more. It does, for one, contain love. It is also distinctly ‘literary’ in nature. But I don’t see the merit in words for the sake of words; nor do I crave the things that so define the word ‘literary’: the meaning of life, hardship, friendship; the human condition. In fact, I tend to dislike such works.

Is it a paradox that my art resembles both my most loved works, and the works which I find wholly execrable?

‘Your art attemps to correct the perceived problems in other works,’ you opine; but the question is really a different one: why does my art—my most personal, most cherished labour; my opus magnus in life as a whole—express itself in many of the same things I find utterly devoid of merit?

I'll admit this isn’t the case for all of my ‘literary’ themes—I'm a teenager, so it's only fit that I write on love, for example—but what exactly makes me question the paragons that are said to lie at the end of the road? What exactly do I find so compelling about a life troubled by vicissitudes, or the bonds of strange other creatures?

Some answers may be found in my own life; others elude all but my subconscious.

‘What are we to get from all this?’ you ask. I shall admit that I have no definitive answer. What I can say: who you think you are—and who you really are—is not a question with a straightforward answer. Art may give you an idea. I do not think to say that it will illuminate the answer in bright glory; for art is a strange thing, prone to misinterpretation and governed by forces mysterious.

What is the Point?

Art can bring succour in desperate times; it can bring answers—difficult ones, but answers all the same—and it can give you a whole new purpose in life.

Perhaps it is but an illusion. I do not think so; and, anyway, that’s a topic for my other essay.

The question of the art for the artist is a different one however. Even if we are to accept that art is a wonderful thing, to be nurtured and cherished in full; questions remain. Can art destroy a person? And what about bad art?

Bad Art

You could argue that there is no such thing. Even the most childish drawing—even the poorest poem, even the most dischordant, disharmonious melody—still bears a kernel of the being that created it.

And that’s true. But art is more than that: it is about inspiring those around you to do greater; it is about discovery—of self and of existence—and it is about beauty.

Beauty is a strange and fickle beast. Some would even say that she doesn’t exist; that she is a mere flicker in the mind—an illusion subtle and perfidious.

I am not of that persuasion. To me, beauty is something that transcends ordinary experience. It is a jewel that need not justifiy its master’s profligacy; for she is freely given, and requires only that we appreciate her.

Bad art does’t have beauty. It has emotion, correct; but it does not entrance the mind, or give pleasure to the senses. Not in the same way. A piece of well reasoned, empirical argument can interest the intellect; emotion can instil visceral fire in the body; but only art—good art—can bring you to a place you didn’t know existed.

So: should bad art be practised?

Yes—But...

Even if bad art does not charm with its tales of mighty heroes; even if its colours blur and swirl without meaning—it still brings its creator a pleasure. An altruistic direction in a life that so often seems confused.

So yes. Even bad art has something to give.

It does not, however, deserve to be brought to the limelight; nor, indeed, must one dedicated a life to it in some vain hope of future glory; for life, too, is a gift, and must not be wasted.

Even so, bad art is worth some attention. It can, for example, reveal the flaws in better art. And, maybe—just maybe—you’ll find a jewel in need of polishing...

The Destruction in Art

I do not believe dark art should be reprobated. Nor do I believe art can sow the seeds of destruction, or add fuel to hungry flames.

Nevertheless, I do not say that it is unable to harm; for if not, it would have no power.

Art is too abstract a thing; too beautiful a thing. Even its dark side cannot bring about terrible fate. That said: practise caution. The poisoned book can make many a man sick...

To Conclude

This has not been a long post. I still have much discover on this journey to places unknown and far away. But this is what I am sure of: art is a gift. Embrace it, and you will find fire in cold ice; fight it, and you will curse yourself to eternal regret.

The Necromancer... In Print!

My book is in my hands. I would say it’s my baby, but that would be silly. It’s a book about flying zombies and centenarians with God-like powers—it’s hardly the kind of thing you’d call your baby. (PS: it’s my baby.)

Anyway, I’ve got some photos for you to look at. They’re not very good (I’m a writer, after all) but I think they’ll do in a pinch.

I’m also going to give my humble opinion on the quality of Lulu’s printing.

But, the photos!

Mr Stargazer is a Very Bad Photographer (Yes, He’s Said that Already)

On Lulu’s Print Quality

On the whole, suprisingly good. The pages are’t too thin (a common complaint with ‘budget’ printing), the construction feels solid, and there are no misprints or washed out ink—a problem I regularly experience with mass-market paperbacks. It’s also surprisingly heavy: whether that’s a good thing, or not; I don’t know. Perhaps I shall ask Lulu support.

Is the Printer Finnicky?

Yes. All printers are finnicky to a degree (no printer wants to make thousands of books with critical flaws, even if it isn’t their fault) but Lulu’s seems particularly egregious. Here’s what happened: LibreOffice (my word processing/quasi-DTP program) can’t embed OpenType fonts as OpenType in a PDF; instead it embeds it in the format known as Type-1, which tend to be quite basic—and problematic. I’m not sure if they prevent good printing outright (I can get my home printer to do it) but it does tend to make printers nervous.

What’s faux pas about Lulu is that their printer only gives general "Font error" type error messages—it doesn’t tell you which specific font is making it complain. This was so problematic, in fact, that it took 3 days to eventually figure out why it wasn’t printing. Make no mistake: the self-publishing biz ain’t easy.

How Do You Feel Alex?

Authors often speak of how it feels to get their first physical book. Euphoria, excitement and giddiness are the most commonly cited emotions. I didn’t expect to feel that, and I don’t. My dreams are bigger than that. And anyway: the idea of trying to sell it en-masse is... pretty daunting.

That said, I do feel a certain... satisfaction? Closure? Something like that. I’ve reached the end of this road. But there’s still plenty more to go. Plenty more monsters to slay, magic to be casted, and dreams to be made.

This is just the beginning.

Why I Followed my Dreams, and the True Cost of Self-Publishing

A few days ago, I drafted my budget and wrote up the basics of my marketing plan. When the current sum came up, I wasn’t at all shocked; in fact, I was pleasantly surprised. Having made a few hard decisions, I was looking at £660 to effectively bring to market; previously, that figure would have been around £1200.

For those not in the business, this can sound like a lot. But rest assured: it isn’t. Because of some hard decisions, I can get away with spending less than most successful self-pubs—and certainly a lot less than what your typical publishing house pays. (Hint: it’s usually more than £2000, for shorter books than this. Obviously, it varies; but I’ve heard typical figures quoted in the £5000 area for this.)

Some of the decisions that had to be made included editing. At the low end, it would have cost me £650–800; but more likely it would have cost me something like £1200 (to properly work one-on-one and collaborate). I have seen editing firms charge in excess of £2000 for this, and some even more (the latter was a questionable proposition though...)

Editing is considered a necessity for most works. Certainly, it would have improved the Necromancer and given me some much deserved help.

Unfortunately, it was not something I could realistically afford. I have a fortuitous sponsor right now—my grandfather—but since he has worked and continues to earn in Romania, I cannot expect to ask large amounts of money from him.

Let’s put it like this: for every bread you can buy in the UK, you can get five breads in Romania.

And publishing is a risky business. While I don’t seriously believe I can’t sell at least 3000 books—a writer must believe to succeed—it is nonetheless a risk involving non-trivial amounts of money.

‘But Alex: why didn’t you go the more affordable editing route and do all the marketing yourself, plus some of the design?’

It is ultimately a question of value. Editing will improve my sales outlook in the long term—and even in the short term it may pay off—and it will have the priceless value of making my book the best it can be.

But I would end up with a great book nobody will find. Through this method, I can both save money; and I can have a good book people will find.

Nearly half of my budget will be spent on marketing—this will involve hiring a professional and possibly buying some ads (still playing with the possibilities). The other half is concerned with design. I am purchasing a print-ready cover, plus promotional art; in addition to this, I am going to hire out an illustrator for a map (stay tuned!) and also likely buy better wallpaper for this blog.

(I’m thinking of getting an Extreme Blog Makeover...)

Some of these expenses sound frivolous, but upon closer thought you will realise this is not the case. A good cover is a requisite for selling books in real numbers. As it is, there are higher end artists out there; though, unsurprisingly, they charge too much for me at present time.

Promotional art is also very important.A key part of my marketing is going to be physically done by me. I am going to work with libraries, bookstores, and I may even do a school assembly. But to that, I need two things: physical books, and something to tempt passing readers.

A good blog appearance isn’t really important in the short term but will build my name in the long term. And as for the map, well—it’s useful to understanding the book, which means it improves my product. (Yes, my book is a personal work of art but in business terms it is a product.)

So there you go: publishing—even done with saviness and some compromises—isn’t a cheap proposition. To really sell books self-pubbing, you will probably need to pay something in the order of £2500+ for this. If you want to make mega-bucks, well: Little Brown and co. spent about £150,000 marketing Elizabeth Kostova’s the Historian—which went on to sell two million copies.

(Quickly opens up Wikipedia... we can’t be wrong on this Alex... these readers of yours are too clever for their own good...)

And apologies for not posting in so long. I have been busy getting a bank account to fund my endeavour, and still need a UK bank account in addition to an NI number, US tax number, and possibly a pair of ISBNs (I can get them free from Romania’s ISBN office).

I have also received my GCSE exam results. They’re good, but can be better. (I do have a lot of them, and I did move in the middle of year 10 and had to catch up on half a year of Drama.) That said: I will probably request a remark for two of them—one is close to a grade boundary, the other looks suspiciously low—and may resit one RE exam in order to get a top grade.

Enough about that, though. I have started to see a terrible vacuousness in all of these mark scoring and results grabbing that I do. Frankly, if I don’t go to Oxford (or Cambridge, but they’re not as bothered about GCSEs) I will probably be in a better financial situation because I’d be studying abroad and won’t be paying £9000 a year. I’ll be paying anything from £2500 (inclusive of health insurance) to £0.

And yes: lots of Oxbridge alumni don’t make that much more than other Russel Group guys or even less prestigious universities. Frankly, going to Oxford is a matter of pride.

And really, I want to succeed writing books. Books bring me a personal satisfaction unmatched by anything else; and financially they can put me in a far better situation than even newly minted bankers. Which brings me on to part 2.

Following my Dreams

When I say ‘and the true cost of self-publishing’ I am in actuality referring to the emotional cost. Self-publishing is like trying to go through a very thick, very hard wall. For that matter, traditional publishing is like trying to get a very fearful, very covetous individual to believe in something he sees as little more than a product.

And book-selling? It’s like trying to shine in a sea of fake jewels. (Or not-so-fake crap.)

But let’s leave all these metaphors behind. The basic idea is: publishing a book is hard whichever way you take. And indeed self-publishing has that extra difficulty of marketing and outsourcing to design professionals and editors... but trad publishers don’t do a whole lot of marketing for most authors these days, and the latter is merely a question of logistics, money, and a little patience.

(Patience, as you can guess, is a virtue every writer comes to possess.)

No: what I am trying to say is that my dreams are no longer that of great university prestige or being some CEO of something or other. Granted, I still dream of that quintessential erudite writer, with charms and a lot of money. But really, it’s the pleasure of being an artist that is my greatest dream.

I do not proclaim to say this book is the culmination of this dream because, frankly, it isn’t. It’s a beginning. It’s a way to earn some money, inspire some trust in those who would fund me, and ideally provide a comfortable budget for the next book.

I am learning how to publish, and will soon learn how to market. I am learning monetisation. Even if this book doesn’t succeed, I will have gained valuable skills (and indeed already have)—skills that can be put to good use in my next books—for there will be more, a great deal more—or, if need be, in earning some cash freelancing.

If this book does gain some success, it won’t be the money that’ll be the biggest pay off. I do not crave wealth, and neither do I want to spend this money on anything constituting a ‘luxury’, or a frivolity. I see money has far better uses than in buying jewellery or designer clothing.

Honestly, the biggest use I’d have for the money is in buying a house. The only houses that are mine are in Romania—a country which no longer interests me, if ever it did.

But even better than a house would be the feeling of knowing I succeeded. It would be... the euphoria, the taste of future possibility. For what greater a quest is there than to live your life the way you want to live it?

‘Alex: what if it bombs?’

This is a question I have thought over carefully; it is, after all, why I am not spending large amounts of money.

But it doesn’t worry me. My writing is getting better and better; my stories are getting greater, more powerful... more defined. If this one don’t succeed, I’ll write another! And it will be so much better. And I hope—perhaps a little naively—that, through indefatigable effort and determination, somebody would believe it in like I do.

The most difficult part is over. I wrote the book, and improved my writing skills until I could turn it into something worthy of attention. I got over my self-doubt and fears. I learned the important skills that any writer must have these days—perspicacity, professionalism, research skills, marketing—and with that the rest will be a matter of continued determination, belief in myself, and lots of hard work.

The wall is in front of me now. But it is a wall that can be broken through so much more easily than the one I couldn’t see.

All I need to do is to continue believing, and to continue hoping.