Sunday, December 06, 2015

Pre-writing thoughts on other writers who weren't famous until after they were dead, which, on balance, kinda is a bum deal.


Writing, writing writing…
My favorite thing to do. Right up there with running, hiking, snowshoeing and cross country skiing, though I don’t get to do nearly enough of the latter two.
I think a lot about writing when I’m not writing. Every now and again I think about self-publishing and traditional publishing and when I would consider the former and why I am leaning toward the latter for the current story I’m writing.
I also think of the point of writing and why I write when there are so many other easier things I could do with my time: Farscape, BSG, Mr. Robot to name a few. When I read the Writer’s Market, and when I follow the twitter feeds from Literary Agents, and when I see the articles ‘what you need to know to be a successful writer’ I remind myself it’s relative.
Here’s what I think about writers:
  • A new writer doesn’t need a platform. A new writer needs a finished manuscript.
  • A  writer who has something to say doesn’t need to think about the market, they need to think about the story they are writing, and how they will tell it. They probably need a traditional publisher.
  • A writer who wants to write rollicking fun campy stories or beach reads can probably self publish, and needs to be able to write multiple books in a year, and fast.  
  • There are more romance novels than can satisfy the romance reader. I wish I was interested in writing romance.

Today I thought about all the authors and artists and thinkers who weren’t recognized, discovered or celebrated until after death and wonder, did anyone send them a postcard? Maybe visit their grave or tomb and just let them know, that, hey, not that it matters anymore, but you’re kinda a big deal?
Maybe that should apply to other famous people like world leaders and interesting historical characters. Would they even get it? Does Cleopatra know about the fuss made over her? Is Caesar like, ‘I’m so much more than the moment of my murder?” Would Davey Crockett be like, wow, I hated that hat… Pocahontos would probably cry about Disney. Would all these obscure-in-life poets and novelists and artists and characters even care?
Of course, it’s not really the point, what you do in a life. It’s not for when you’re dead. It’s for while you’re living. So they probably would just think ‘figures…’
But it’s what I’m thinking about, since I’m about to spend the next couple hours writing about a space-adventuring teenager.

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