I haven't been spouting my personal rants and topics lately, and if anyone's honestly lonely for them, I'm sorry. October is always sort of reserved for my media rants---this year since I'm writing for Examiner I've been able to reach a wider group of people than I would by just doing blogs, and it's been really awesome already. For those of you who enjoy horror films and want to check out what I've been doing, here are some links to the series, titled My Life In Horror . . . For those of you who have already read or enjoyed them, thank you ever so much . . . (you complete me). Anyway, in addition to watching different media events O' the season, I'm rereading many of King's short stories, and was struck by the opening chapter of what I think is a great collection, Skeleton Crew. He basically explains how a neighbor or friend (or whatever the guy was) sat and hemmed and hawed with him about the exact dollar amount he was paid for one of the short stories that was published in Playboy (in the mid-eighties). I had a few thoughts.
1. Anyone who spends that much time obsessing over SOMEONE ELSE'S MONEY seriously needs to get a life.
2. The whole conversation between the two guys gave very much the feeling of the friend/neighbor taking a paternalistic tone (with King). I'm reaching here, obviously, but I've known people throughout my life, non-creative people who see creative people as . . . I don't know, talented, lucky, yet untrained, undisciplined children who really just need to be taken to task. This whole situation felt that way to me, like this douche was just one-upping King over and over about how much money he was really making from his writing. Hey, the fact that he's making money from his writing should be enough, man, ask anyone who's tried to do just that and you'll see just how precious $2000/$1800/$1790/$785 for ONE SHORT STORY ends up being. Prick.
3. King responds by doing what a truly introverted writer would do----saying nothing, agreeing, even, and then blasting the cock-knocker back in the introduction of the book where the short story later appeared. And I have a very weak sort of idea of where I originally wanted to go with this rant, and here it is . . . a writer will remember *everything* that happens to them, sometimes issuing all the way back to early childhood. If you're a douche (like King's "Steve-O"-calling neighbor), don't think for a minute we won't remember your douchery. Moot point, really, (for me, at least) since I don't think any douches actually read this, but King perhaps suspected that the guy would read his intro, adding brilliantly that bit at the end about actually having more beer in the fridge that he refused to share with the dude and then drank later, himself . . . (!)
Most of the time we just smile and nod. And file shit away for months, years, decades down the road when we get a chance to sit down and sort through it all. You know damned well no one forgives and forgets, not really. It's all still there. And the thing that floors me the most about this whole situation is that even someone as solid, as talented, as recognizable as King (in the eighties, anyway) still had to what, prove himself? Take shit from someone? Part of life, I guess, but come on. I know how I feel about my own writing, and I'm just me. This dude, pissing on King's story like that (over logistics) seriously got under my skin . . . most of us see our completed projects as not only extensions of ourselves but nearly akin to living, breathing beings that we've spawned. It's not something to take lightly.
I got going on this initially, months ago during that Mad Men episode where Pete Campbell becomes insanely jealous of his coworker whose short story gets published---he assumes that any moron can obviously do it and sets out to get his own work published as well (which is successfully placed . . . in Boy's Life Magazine). That whole bit really got to me, because I know exactly what that feels like, having someone assume that they can easily do what I do, that it's easy because I'm not constantly screaming or pulling my hair out over it, whether it's a film degree, mothering four kids, or writing, people have these assumptions. It's like every move you make, every word you write, you're going to be asked to prove yourself over and over again, but most of the writers I know, myself included, aren't good salespeople and any ego we have goes into the writing, not the self-promotion.
When I first decided to go to school for film, there were a handful of supportive people, mostly my husband and his family, but damned if I don't remember two extremely rude and condescending comments about it, one made to a friend and another right to me, directly. I've given stuff I've written to other people to look at and have had them say point blank, "I don't like it." I've had the things I like criticized, my music, my films, my shows, repeatedly. I've had well-intentioned people (who know me as a person but have no idea what I'm about professionally, if you can call it that) compliment me after reading my stuff or watching film projects I've done by saying, "I had no idea you were so articulate/intelligent/artistic/creative." You don't just go out with a megaphone and scream to the world, "HEY, I'M GOOD!" but it feels like it's required, these days. Giving my absolute all as a parent isn't easy, and neither is writing, but it's what I do.
I honestly love everything I've ever written---most of the serious reviews I've submitted to Examiner I am so utterly proud of I have to read through them at least a few times a month JUST FOR MY OWN ENTERTAINMENT AND ENJOYMENT. Am I going to race up and down the street, begging for you to read them, too, or sit out on my front step discussing the finer points of film theory and artistry (also reiterating the fact that I didn't just sit on my ass and watch American Pie over and over for my film degree)? No. When someone dogs my playlist, do I feel the need to explain to them the comfort I get from the I-IV-V chord progressions in house music, that I had damned near absolute pitch during my years as a music major, and that I . . . oh, orchestrated (single-handed) The Devil Went Down To Georgia for myself, a vocalist, a violist, and three guitar players who could hardly read music? No, I don't (but I told you, so there).
Don't get into a land war in Asia.
A writer's head= Asia.
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