Authorial tears
One more week, one more piece detailing the sorrows of being a published author1 — this one in a trade publication, and not in the Guardian or other confessional content factory.
I should have stopped reading at the point where this specific author humbly brags about their six-figure advance, in order to continue with my pedestrian four-figure occupations, but I made the mistake of reading the whole piece, and now I can’t get it out of my head, and I’m imposing it on you. I don’t want to be unnecessarily mean, but the piece reminded me of the current trend of over-sharing on TikTok. Candid short form content is clearly on the rise these days, part of the solipsistic wave that has taken over literature in the past decade or so, particularly in longer form.
I don’t want to be unnecessarily mean, no. But also I feel it’d be useful to unpack some of the points this kind of piece regularly touches upon, as they overlap with some of the themes I’ve been exploring in this space.
Why so sad?
Why do writers return over and over again to the trope of being disappointed after they published a book, often their first one? I know I have fallen for this cliché myself before, somewhere, I can’t remember where, probably on social media. Is it about working for years on something that as a rule has little impact on the real world? Is it about the Myth of the Author with capital A, and all the fantasies around this figure, fantasies that come crumbling down all at once as soon as you are no longer an unpublished virgin? Is it about all the hype the Industry (with capital I) excretes in order to push our books, often convincing us that we are out to conquer the world, just because our book will be on some shelves in a bookshop together with thousands of other books? Is it because when you finally see your book in the wild you quickly realise your life carries on pretty much like the day before? Is it a combination of all the above? Why the hell are we so sad?
My main problem with these pity-me pieces is that for all their recurrence they rarely make any attempt to look beyond the author’s nose. My second problem is that when there is an attempt to look for answer beyond the author’s nose, they still remain within the realm of publishing. As I have written in this newsletter to the point of nausea, this limited scope results from the incongruous way with which authors regard themselves today: both labourers (in an industry) and something other than labourers tasked with producing cultural commodities (for an industry). Perhaps if we managed to resolve this exceptionalism we would start to ask real questions about the meaning of writing. But to do that, we would have to let go of the romanticism surrounding the figure of the Author. Since part of the problem here is the toxic intersection of art and industry, the other alternative would be to stop trying to please the Industry, take a step out of the rat race, and take literature as the game it was always supposed to be. Fuck ideas of failure or success that always boil down to exchange value. Just write your thing and give a toss about how it is received.
But would you say no to the dream of a six-figure advance and just write in your spare time? You can’t have the cake and eat it, kids. And eating this cake might make you sad.
The sadness of the published author is the sadness of alienation
Is sadness inherently literary? Does the guy who delivers the Amazon parcels, to name just a regular person, ever go through bouts of work-related sadness? Having had the some of the shittiest jobs out there, I can confirm they made me very sad. Having to surrender more than a third of our lives to the game of not ending up under a bridge is sad — yes, I’m talking about wage slavery, which so bad it’s even in the Holy Bible. And it isn’t even about doing things you love to do to avoid the bridge, otherwise we wouldn’t be seeing any of these soapy sad author pieces. It’s a double edged sword, this wage slavery scam. For if you earn your money doing what you love, there’s a big chance you’ll end up hating what you love (and sad). And if you do something you hate, there’s a big chance you’ll end up hating yourself (and sad). This is one of the most depressing contradictions in a person’s life.
What makes the sadness of the published author worse than that of the Amazon delivery guy, is that the author is alone facing this contradiction, especially the liberal types who are often behind the pieces. And no, a so-called #WritingCommunity isn’t enough, and no, the Society of Authors isn’t enough, and no, being elected to the Royal Society of Literature isn’t enough either. What I’m talking about is that the nature of the writer’s labour is rather lonely; and therefore our attempts to tackle the problem of alienation are too often lonely too — and therefore, doomed to fail. We writers suck at solidarity; we suck at coming together to at least try to fix things, with very rare exceptions. We often just write our little books, send them into the void, and hope for the best. And when the best doesn’t happen, we get depressed and blame the Industry (with capital I) for being mean.
The 👏 industry 👏 needs 👏 to 👏 do 👏 better 👏 👏
Or blame readers for not being open enough with their reading choices.
Readers 👏 need 👏 to 👏 do 👏 better 👏 👏
And on, and on.
As long as this isn’t understood we will keep getting sad and writing content about getting sad, getting sadder and feeling more impotent in the process. A proper vicious circle of impotent sadness and masturbatory self-obsession. All of this not to think that what’s wrong isn’t our career, or the lack of attention our book gets, but the dog eat dog system in which we live — the system to which we’ve ended up surrendering the part of our lives we claim to love. A system, not content, nor literature can change alone. A system no person can change on their own.
It’s 👏 capitalism 👏 stupid 👏👏
Bellybuttons
I have no doubt that the pain expressed in these pieces is real. I haven’t a hint of a doubt that these authors feel miserable. You send your book out, nothing happens, or at least not the things you expected would happen: the reviews don’t come, or there aren’t that good; the royalties are poor; etc. Anyone who put energy and time and effort into anything would feel miserable with the same result. But would anyone other than an Author (with capital A) write a teary piece about how tough it is out there? How many pieces by the Amazon delivery guy have you read in the press? Of this, I have no doubts either: only writers are driven to this form of public weeping, not only because we are useless at organising and writing is all we have, but because this kind of public weeping is now encouraged.2 That’s why, even if I don’t want to be unnecessarily mean, I can’t feel too much compassion for this type of performative suffering. No one is forced to write at gun point; as I have said before: if writing makes you miserable consider quitting, since there are many other things to do with your time.
I often wonder how many of those involved in the politics of oversharing, would feel better about themselves if they could forget about themselves for five straight minutes. We have been trained into thinking happiness is an individual right, or even a commodity; and yet, perhaps, happiness only comes about when we dissolve into a collective project. Yes, I’m hinting at collective politics, but also: is there a bigger happiness than dissolving into another person, that is, falling in love? It’s not so complicated or revolutionary: whether it is through love or collective politics, dissolving starts when one raises one’s head and stares beyond the bellybutton.
Meanwhile, the sad published author keeps refreshing the Goodreads page, hoping for attention. And when this attention doesn’t come, when life continues as always, the sad published author writes a sad published author piece. What a lonely affair, this neurotic game. No wonder everyone is so sad.
Exhibits B and C and D, ad eternum. The recurrence of miserable memoirists is of course coherent with the sorrows of self-commodification.
The word “brave” is often deployed after these public displays of self pity, for example.
It’s taken me a long time to accept something I have always known but I felt compelled to ignore out of some moronic humility, but now I know it as true as sunlight: there are many authors (not even talking of Auteurs) and writers, some exceptionally gifted regardless of one’s subjective tastes, but there are very few artists. The end.