Monday, April 8, 2013

Marx, a Faustian Bargain, and the Novel as a Literary Commodity

I was told recently to write a different kind of novel; a fiction more readily marketable to a broader demographic range, with prose less intense, genre less marginalized, plot less convoluted and subsequent economic success more assured. Invariably the financial wherewithal of this or that romance author came to the fore, with skyrocketing sale-success dangling in tantalizing proximity...if only you would...??!!

My immediate thought is of a Faustian bargain. Will I sell my literary soul for potential monetary and bestselling-list acclaim? Now this purveyor of insidious intent is not a Mephistopheles, the devilish intermediary of Goethe fame, but one born of the utterly sincere desire to improve my literary and economic fortunes...and most decidedly, like Faust, the temptation exists; at least the lure of acquisition, the pinnacle of all supposed coveted literary goals - fame and fortune! Who would not want the monetary liberty to write at will, unconstrained by the grinding encumbrance of making-ends-meet-employment, the tedium of necessary engagement that pays the perpetual bills but inhibits and constrains writing time?

This train of thought, however, cast my mind along Marxian lines, with the essential assumption being that the literary work was a commodity that could be arbitrarily replaced by another in the authorial minds eye. The novel, at the end of the factory line, is indubitably a commodity in the sense that it is a product of human labor that is intended for consumption within the broader literary landscape. We write so that we may be read do we not? For a writer without an audience (irrespective of size) is, to my mind, a meaningless thing: an empty vessel which despite an attractive exterior lacks the substance which gives it functional purpose, a deprivation that stunts not only the work itself (unfiltered, unaffected, undiscussed by an engaged readership) but also the literary proclivities and passion of the author - for how does one write feverishly and fervently without the hope of reaching a minority, a minimum of few? Do we not all desire our penned-labors to make some modicum of impact? The ripples need not be widespread nor impressive of size - but we must feel that we are writing for a singular purpose.

But if the novel is (once transcribed in ink across the page, packaged and shipped, virtually available on all possible e-forums) indeed a commodity it was not always so. Before it becomes an item that is purchased for a sum, it is a living and breathing thing; a snugly intimate companion within the darkly pulsing neural framework; a fanciful invention of whimsical threads, a fabricated reality that has no roots in commodity, or use value, or economic imperative - produced instead by an immeasurable emotional engagement, by a painstakingly meticulous attention to words, to phrases, and the torturous need to depict the fluidity of action that is cast across the internal screenplay of the writer's mind. This commodity is birthed in passion, in the unmitigated desire to string words together in a meaningful way. For the toiling writer the subsequent manuscript is a soulful heartsong given literary wing; an improbably bejeweled insect in delicate flight.

Before emerging as 'commodity' this winged one is necessarily encased, confined, stamped, packaged and distributed. It is a version of solidity, a dragonfly immobilized in amber that is no less beautiful in the translucence of wing and the ambiguity of molten gold - arrested in the ethereal elegance of winged flight. But the novel is no longer the same as it was - it is now a collection of pages, stamped in ink, a series of like-spines on a bookseller's shelf, a meandering association of binary bits for sale at kindle prices. It is now subject to all the vagaries of the reading public - to be damned or elevated on the whims of the occasional reviewer - to be consigned to publishing oblivion or thrust forth into the spotlight of orchestrated literary applause.

But it is the beginnings that most intrigue me. I am after all a writer of prose; a fashioner of literary dreams; an avid collector of dragonflies before their flight is stilled. I do not merely write to demand, not do I construct with one eye to commercial viability, I write the lyrical song that thrums through my blood, that reverberates across the rhythmic thud of heartbeat, that echoes from the polished cavity of bone. So to the earnest interlocutor, to those who do not labor over ink-stained manuscripts as the darkness fades into dawn, to those who do not birth literary passions, but whom indubitably mean well - I simply smile and thank them. For as with a leopard's allocated spots, we as writers are just as indubitably bound by the uniqueness of our particular resonating theme; one that moreover seems to choose us more particularly than otherwise - a statement more readily comprehended by the scribbling ilk than not I fear. For this is not something I would say to my well-meaning interlocutor. They would gaze at me with irritable perplexity - as if I was deliberately choosing an obscure literary fate deprived of economic succor simply to spite them - but this is an understood thing. How could it be otherwise? Because they see only the commodity! It is one and the same; this book or that, this well-run theme or that commercial-success formulaic, and our obdurate refusal to comply is simply a self-defeatist masochism for which we should, at the end of it all, be thoroughly chastised!

For I believe that great writers are possessed of an inward-gaze; utterly focused on the literary endeavor (ofttimes it can be said to the utter detriment of subsequent marketing efforts). But it should be so. For that is where the wellspring lies, the much-belabored creative source, the seedlings that give rise to mightiest of literary oaks. So when tempted by the easy incline of commercial formula, of the 'guaranteed' publishing success of this other genre or that, or by this kind of writing or that, the writer must carefully consider their own internal imperative and whether or not they are utterly impassioned by the harmony of the literary song - to the point that they will expend an untold accumulation of time, each page hard-won and stained with the residual trails of blood and sweat. For at the very least, at the end of such Sisyphean labor (for does one not then begin again?) do we not want to look upon our literary offspring with maternal pride? To feel it an exercise glorious and an endeavor instilled with a meaningful truth?

For once the Faustian bargain is struck payment indubitably comes due - years or decades later, when all  those delicate threads of potential literary marvel have become knotted and entangled, accumulating in acidic discomfort like a hard bellystone of unrelenting regret - yes one might achieve monetary wealth from novels frequently-churned, but is one's writing accompanied by a frisson of utter delight? Is the manifestation of the literary thing, commodity or otherwise. a piece of work of which one can proudly say "yes, that one in all it's imperfections, yes, that one is mine" ?

20 comments:

  1. Another sublime musing PJ - utterly loved it! Why doesn't anyone write like this anymore? I always wait with bated breath for your next musing and you never disappoint! Fascinating thoughts that provide insight into the writing process for all of us who work at the craft. Thank you!!

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    1. Thank you Sarah for your most kind words - I am thrilled that you enjoyed my musing, and most appreciative of the honor you bestow by reading it when time is short and so much pulls at our attention. Warm regards, PJ

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    2. Sarah, that is exactly the right word - a distinctive voice. I CONCUR. No one else could write this -- and hardly anyone could write anything with such distinction.

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    3. Thank you Pim - for your literary endorsement - it is much appreciated indeed!

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  2. Thank you, PJ Royal, for this heartfelt musing. I think the Ministry of Culture & Information should print a million pamphlets of it and scatter it all over the USA. And Canada. I am sure many a stuggling witer, poet or artist will draw strength from your musings, as they are at the same time delicate and full of resolve!

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    1. I do hope so indeed Pim! It is all too frequently a rocky arduous road we have chosen, one hopefully a little easier when we encourage each other en route!

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  3. Dearest PJ,

    Your delicious description of the creative process to arrive at the 'birth' of a masterful piece of literary work is precisely what defines a true artist in his/her element when in the throws of something truly great:

    "...produced [...] by an immeasurable emotional engagement, by a painstakingly meticulous attention to words, to phrases, and the torturous need to depict the fluidity of action that is cast across the internal screenplay of the writer's mind [...] birthed in passion, in the unmitigated desire to string words together in a meaningful way. For the toiling writer the subsequent manuscript is a soulful heartsong given literary wing; an improbably bejeweled insect in delicate flight."

    I also want to commend your invaluable insight into the inspiration of literary greatness. So few have been able to express with such clarity and analogy that you choose to convey your richness of wisdom:

    "...great writers are possessed of an inward-gaze; utterly focused on the literary endeavor...For that is where the wellspring lies, the much-belabored creative source, the seedlings that give rise to mightiest of literary oaks."

    This has been a tremendously rewarding humble musing, and I thank you for choosing to remain true to your standards.

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    1. Thank you so much Shari - for your most generous words, and for taking the time to peruse my humble musing.

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    2. It is my sincere reward to absorb your gifted musings and have opportunity to respond.

      Regarding the literary commodity, it is my sincere belief that an artist must express from the heart and the "artistic soul" for the pure joy of creation. Anything short of this would not be art but rather artisanal production for mass appeal. I do not wish to judge those who choose the commercial route for the sake of a guaranteed financial return, I simply distinguish the difference between the two categories of the genre, in this case writing. This is not to say that great literary works do not enjoy their due recognition and subsequent remuneration commensurate with such accolades in their time. The irony is that a great literary piece tends to age like fine wine and improve with time and generations, far beyond the life of the author, proving that universal themes become even more significant beyond the time/place/circumstance of the setting, and they can take on new meaning as future philosophies open up possibilities for critical interpretations and human understanding. Then they attain classification as a "classic," a priceless title in the greater scheme of things.

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    3. Yes - utterly agree - thank you Shari!

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  4. I hereby like Shari's contribution three times. Not only does PJ Royal tell us in exquisite and concise wordings how masterpieces are born; this writer is actually giving birth to them.

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    1. I am indeed doing my best! Thank you dear Pim for your unstinting support and encouragement. I am so happy you enjoyed my writings!

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  5. It's a dilemma every serious artist faces. We are lost if we fail to distinguish "success"— accomplishing what we set out to do — and "fame" (sales, prizes, etc.). Writing for the market vs. writing to meet some personal standard of excellence, and only the author can tell if s/he has succeeded. It may be great to get both, but they're not the same except for the totally mercenary artist. That's what Hemingway meant when he cursed "the bitch goddess, success" — he feared that fame was distorting his personal values. I think that Karl Marx (whom you mention in an odd context) would agree on the distinction. In fact, he wrote something very much like this.

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    1. Perhaps there is a timeliness to this also - obviously when undertaking a literary endeavor all focused attention must be brought to the task; there being time after writing all said and done for publishing and marketing and all the selling-aspects that come along with that. Thank you for stopping by and for your most interesting note left behind!

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  6. Dear PJ, to compromise one's writing is to cater to a fickle market and the ebb and flow of popular genres. Much like a slave to fashion who would don an unbecoming "latest rage" at the cost of style or individual taste, a writer's intentionally altered prose, for whatever purpose, will ring false and I would imagine would be very hard to sustain. Your lyrical, immaculately reasoned, prose is like an intoxicating perfume that lingers. If we were to walk in your trail or read one of your musings, posted anonymously, we would recognise it to be distinctly and unmistakably PJ. May that never change.

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    1. Thank you Dana - I agree with you and feel that I must write what compels irrespective of publishing-pragmatism. Your words touch me deeply indeed, and I am most grateful for them - particularly poignant personally coming from such an accomplished and talented writer such as yourself!

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  7. Wonderful thoughts and observations, PJ. Certain works will never fit certain formulas that are required by specific markets. Imagine a "Les Miserables" going to the publishing house today! Perhaps an idea to take away from a "rework it into something shorter" response from an editor (if we could all get that far!) would be to re-imagine the same work (if truly the desire is to be published) in a way that lends a new way of presenting it--the work composed as a series, perhaps. It would have to rest easy in the writer's mind that the re-working of the piece would be the creating of a new one...but in the end, the world and the writer both could be richer for it... --CamWiley

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    1. Thank you Cam for your visit and your comment! Interesting idea indeed - a Dickensian solution perhaps? :)

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  8. Dear P.J.
    Even without knowing the author, one knows who penned this muse. The phrases soar and delight, the substances dwell in the conscience and develop as your train of thought expands to reach a pinnacle of comprehension. Then lets you go, until the next wave of lyrical waxing starts to rise.
    Bloody wonderful.
    Only you.
    Rgds
    Chris

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    1. Dear Chris,
      Your sublime praise humbles me indeed! I am thrilled beyond measure that you enjoyed the musing, and am grateful for your most generous commentary left behind.
      With all appreciation for the warm kindness of my readers,
      PJ

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