Eating the Flesh of Leprechauns

So, to headline stuff quickly: books for the giveaway are going out, sorry I’ve not been around, this is a tough week for me as I don’t really have a shitton of time to do anything but be a pal of pals.

In general, I’m both a fan and not a fan of this time of year.  While I utterly adore being busy and I have tremendous fun being at two of my favorite cons of the year, I have one of those weird feelings that time is passing in a blur and not a lot is getting done, like one of those montages where people are getting older and turning to dust as you watch a tree grow up into a beautiful bounty of green apples and then the apples fall and shrivel up into old man balls and then the camera zooms out and they actually are an old man’s old man balls and they turn to dust and it pans up and the guy is staring at you and his face is turning to dust and you see a child laughing in the reflection of his dull, rheumy eyes before they turn to dust and there’s an aging farmhouse in the background and you’re all “what the hell just happened” and your date is all “shut up it’s totally artistic” and you’re like “no, it’s stupid, I wanted to see Lord of the Rings” and she’s all “we’ve watched that movie twelve times” and you’re like “which” and she’s like “what which?” and you’re like “it’s a trilogy, Sophie, you have to say which” and she’s all “the one with goblin” “who the hell is goblin” “the little goblin” “his name is SMEAGOL, SOPHIE, GOD DAMN IT.”

…sorry.

Anyway, I’m back from two different conventions back-to-back, both of which were exceedingly fun but bore a pretty interesting contrast.

I note that, when people who are not published (but have aspirations to be), they generally experience two different fantasies of what it’s like.

One is the artist: frequently frustrated, often starving (or at least suffering from poor nutrition), downing cups of coffee as droplets of sweat pour down their furrowed brows to stain the keyboards as trembling, caffeine-laced fingers gingerly type out six words in the span of twelve hours before recoiling with a gasp and looking up at the ceiling to reminisce about how cool it would be to have a really messed-up relationship so  you could write about that.

The other is the businessman: the person for whom the term “schmooze” is less of a verb and more of a rare form of martial art, going out to social events with suits and ties and hobnobbing with people who discuss contracts and royalties and say “how’s that baby of yours doing anyway, Johnson” as they sip expensive wine and pretend everyone around them is wearing deodorant and titter politely at jokes that colleagues make before quietly talking about how you loathe them so when they turn their backs.

It may be because I used to get beat up by the math club at school, but I’ve never really had a head for numbers and, subsequently, I’ve never had a real fantasy for being business-like…businessesque.  I don’t wear suits, since I don’t like owning more than three pairs of trousers at a time.  I hate babies.  My titters tend to be manly grunting sounds and I think it’s dishonest to wait until a person has left to talk about how much you loathe them, so I frequently interrupt people mid-sentence to tell them I hate them.

It’s possible I’m doing it wrong.

In summation: I like World Fantasy, but I don’t frequently go there to talk business.  So I don’t have a lot to tell you beyond the fact that these three men are all liars and you should never listen to anything any of them says ever about anything.

I will say this, though: don’t fantasize about business.

I can certainly understand the allure.  The idea of high-stakes deals, agents in heated negotiations and movie deals flying through the air like paper cranes can be enough to set many people a-quiver.  The words “luncheon meeting” can inspire strange and confusing emotions in many people.  Indeed, these things may very well happen.  Indeed, they may be happening right now.

But it’s a dangerous road.  Because I find the type of people who fantasize about the business of writing often become obsessed with numbers.  They fantasize about the number of lists they’ll be on, the number of awards they’ll get, the kinds of amazing things that will happen to them once they get published.  I think even the most battle-hardened writer thinks about that.  I don’t think any of us ever stops thinking about that.

The difference between fantasy and reality, though, aside from the disappointing lack of dragons and the ability to solve your problems by stabbing people, is recognition.  Specifically, the recognition that careers, especially in this industry, are like rivers.  They ebb and flow.  They rise, they fall.  Some of them become overfished and collapsed.  Some just drift away.  They may twist alike, but no two ever twist in precisely the same way.  The only way to succeed at being a river is to flow the way you want to flow.

Before the torture of that metaphor gets me imprisoned for war crimes, I’ll summarize by saying this: no matter how much business gets done, no matter how many luncheon meetings you aspire to have, it will always come down to the art and the art will determine everything you do.

When the art clicks with people, it will create the success.  And when the times are difficult, it will be your love of the art that keeps you going.  Fantasy is lovely.  Ambition is to be applauded.  But recognize what you can and cannot affect.  You can’t affect how the future will play out.  You can affect what you write and what you continue to write.  That’s the kind of fantasy you can thrive on.

I’d go further, but I think anything else at this point can only be said if I were a big lion floating in the clouds.

And you’re no goddamn Simba.