So You Wanna Be a Writer?

https://lightelf.substack.com/p/so-you-wanna-be-a-writer

According to the Pareto Principle, 20% of your actions produces 80% of results, and 20% of the men sleep with 80% of the women. In historical terms, only 40% of men were able to reproduce. In times of invasion and great oppression, these numbers were even less hopeful. If you think this physical material reality and its conditions are harsh, know that the spiritual realm is even harsher. As Schopenhauer notes, the realm of imagination is more unstable, more fleeting, and requires more sustenance to even exist, as compared to the physical world. Contrast a dream and a dumb rock, and you get the picture. The rock doesn’t have to eat, keep warm or be caressed once every decade. You do, as the owner of a fragile dream. Now, let me tell you about this dream of yours.

Where the Pareto Principle admits success to one fifth of the input, let’s compare this physical criterion to the more fleeting intellectual pursuit of writing. Out of every ten manuscripts started, only one is completed. Out of every ten completed manuscripts, only one is published. If you go a hundred years or so back in time, getting anything published, even if just an article in a newspaper, was enough to be well off for a month, possibly longer. You could pay your rent and afford yourself luxuries for a single article, as described by the Norwegian writer Amalie Skram. Presently, entropy has kicked in here also. Out of every ten published manuscripts, only one will earn you meaningful money, say enough to buy a used car. And out of every ten revenue generating manuscripts, only one will provide a person with stable money. Out of every ten bestsellers, only one will rise to fame. And out of every ten famous works, only one has been in touch with the god of art.

This is a bit much to take in, and clarity is always good. Let us sum it up:

Completion-Publishing-Getting money-Getting wealth-Getting fame-Reaching the gods

For an aspiring writer, the following mathematical formula thus applies if you work on a work in earnest:

There’s a 10% chance you will finish your manuscript. There’s a 1% chance of you getting published with what you’re working on. There’s a one of thousand chance that you will receive meaningful money for your work, and one out of ten thousand chance that it bring lasting income, say that of a small pension. There’s a one of hundred thousand chance that you will be remembered after your death. There’s one in a million chance that you have brought Words of Power, or Something New to the world.

Some numbers, huh? It’s almost like playing in the lottery or getting a truly wonderful woman when we apply the Pareto principle. But wait, you’re special, right? With you it’s different. How many times haven’t I heard that? How many times haven’t I told myself that much? The temptation to quote a Roman emperor is great, I think it must have been Tiberius: “Of all the rising young men I’ve seen, where are they now?”

There are two ways the notion of being different and ‘special” is given rise, which are mutually exclusive. This would be narcissism and idealism, respectively. In the event of narcissism, you believe the exterior world somehow should create an inner world, which in your case doesn’t even exist. In the event of idealism, you believe your inner world and feelings somehow should be able to dictate the conditions and doings of the world at large, something which usually qualifies for the insanity asylum. The narcissist has no regard for others, the idealist has no regards for himself, otherwise they wouldn’t have ventured upon the foolery. The conditions of narcissism and idealism, different as they may be, are both the testimony of fragile boundaries between the internal and external. The only way to have a realistic view of the world is to have a regard for yourself and others. The external world does not create your inner world, you should have that yourself, and you certainly do not dictate the goings of the external world based on your feelings.

So, what do we say to a young man that want to take up writing, with all this in mind? We say the same as to any young man that want to take up a sport, or play an instrument, for I suspect the same numbers, or something similar, also apply here. By all means, try, and by all means, do your best. But the chances of you achieving your dream is mathematically very small. Getting rich is the easiest, yet far away. Getting famous is harder. Touching the Olympus as a wrestler is almost impossible. What remains, then? You could do it out of love for the sport, profession, art, or activity, and it’s always better to take part than merely being a spectator. When you’re finally relegated to a role as a spectator only, it will feel better. This applies to being a family man or a wrestler, where you’re retired from the ordeal of women and beatings for the lack of physical force, or a writer, where physical force and energy also applies. But we want a little more, do we not?

Be the best you can be, is one of the maxims of the ancient Greek world. Rise as far as you can and be realistic about what you’re doing. Don’t deny your wishes but apply them to take part in the race. And there’s another principle that is related, that of Agon, which would mean something like competition and strife, because you always want to beat your contemporaries. Don’t look too far ahead, to a distant dream, some castle in the horizon, or an end goal, but focus on the here and now, and being better than your contemporaries and peers. Then, you can take it step by step, all the way up. For we want to win, truly. By being in the moment, and focusing on strife, the process itself, you’ll be closer to being the best you can be, whatever that is. As another Norwegian writer, Tarjei Vesaas said: It would be a silent forest of only the best songbirds were allowed to sing. I allow dwarves to dance and sing. I allow giants to dance and sing too, because generosity and a cheerful heart are mine to have. Be it otherwise and you’re petty either way.

Having said all this, let me give you some practical help. My vantage point is that you’re entirely new to this, but some of what I say may be useful for more experienced people as well. If not anything else, it might serve as a reminder, as I’ve had to remind myself of many things from time to time.

Advice to a Young Man

I’ve ventured into altogether three artistic milieus, that of the Norwegian Art Academy, that of dissident artists in a rather successful and prolific blog called Litteraturbloggen, and that of a writer’s circle with a number of talented and antagonistic friends. In all these circles, different as they may be, the following Holy Law applied:

Everything you write, even if it’s a first draft, should be done to the best of your ability. You must have worked to find your ‘voice,’ and this includes not only your style, but also a certain adhering to basic formal rules, which can only be broken once you’ve mastered them. When a draft is made and shown to anyone, and that means anyone, you should have worked to remove glaring formal errors. You will listen to what your chosen critic has to say, and this person should not be a normal friend or family member, because you need someone who can tell you things you don’t want to hear. Then, and only then, you can let the manuscript rest, perhaps for a month. You will then read it again, with new eyes, and work on every sentence and paragraph anew, making improvements where you can. Then, you will send the manuscript to a publisher. If you are accepted, you will get a consultant, who will do the same as your personal critic. He will make suggestions and demand things rewritten or removed. Where you had a 50/50 balance in the power relation to your critic, you would listen some, but also maintain your integrity, now there should be a 75/25 balance in favor of the consultant. You should then work diligently according to the consultant’s guidelines and then send him a new draft. This process will be repeated as many times as the consultant demands, and then, only then, the manuscript will be accepted and made into a novel, after hiring external help for a removal of absolutely all language errors, and after that, hiring external help for making the layout. The result is a novel which is holy, which everyone must bend their heads for and treat respectfully but will be allowed to criticize based on the ideas and artistic content presented. In short, every sentence and paragraph, though the entire work, should have carefully been considered, by you and others, over and over and over again.

Much of this is out of the window in the era of self-publishing, where adhering to such strict criteria simply isn’t possible, even if you wanted to. This is made worse by the artistic class actually blocking new ideas that stand in opposition to their disgusting middle-class moralism and globalists directives, in short, their cowardly servitude to the billionaire class, in the hopes of being made privileged slaves. This blocking of new ideas, when the novel means “The new,” lead to the following sorrowful conclusion: We can now conclude that it isn’t a matter of the novels today being poorly written. The novels of today aren’t even novels, or novel, to begin with!

But damn it, I’ve seen self-published books with spelling errors in the back-cover synopsis, and else way books littered with formal errors, including spelling errors, where it’s obvious the writer hasn’t mastered basic formal rules like formatting. Then you’re not even trying. Then you haven’t even entered the race, and you stand no chance of success. If anything, this will serve to take away your authority and insult the reader. Let me tell you a secret. Almost all human endeavors depend on authority, and with writing, doubly so. Let me tell you another secret. Authority is an illusion. Then the writer, as the furthermost wielder of illusions, must work to maintain the power of his craft.

Here’s one of my most intimate recipes when it comes to writing, something I periodically forget and must remember anew. All things considered, it’s the single most important factor between writing good and writing poorly. Writing isn’t simply a matter of creating sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, and without respect for the material and yourself, just moving on. That’s like a craftsman with no love for what he’s doing, just bumbling away and waving his tools around. After you’ve had a writing session, you should read each paragraph again, and again. Taste the words. Feel the rhythm and delve into what’s being said. Unless you’re extremely skilled or lucky with each and every word, and no one is, I’m sure you’ll uncover better word choices and ways to structure your sentences. You’ll find that parts of what you’ve written can be expanded, and parts can advantageously be removed. Repeat the process. Taste. Feel. Delve into. Repeat. I promise you the writing will be better, because now you’ve actually worked with the material. Now you’ve tried, beyond the mere formal. Now we’re entering the artistic realm.

An engineer would say that anyone can do math. It’s just a matter of trying and using time. It’s the same with writing. Everyone can write well if they just take their time, try, and work with the material. And mostly, this is what separates a good writer from a poor one. Most of writing, and art, is a matter of craftmanship, and it’s on this level I operate, most of the time.

However, the very best writing must have an element of irrationality, frenzy and the intuitive to it. There’s a voice from within that must be listened to, and there are voices from the outside which speak thunderously for those with the hearing for it. To approach the intuitive and this inner voice, you must write yourself into your core. Find your voice, I’ve often heard this in various writer’s circles. What are the things that matter to you? What do you truly care about? What do you know about, which is important? And these things are not what you or society often tell you. I’ve seen bad writers suddenly write exceptionally well when they wrote into their core. Admit which way you’re leaning, whatever way that may be.

Self-admission is hard. Listening to the gods and the outer voices is harder. I’ve been in intuitive phases at various stages of my life, and my best writings are from such periods. Always, my body suffers, as well as my sanity. All of your energy is poured into this one vision, and everyday concerns, and even any concerns at all, simply have to go. I’ll freely admit there’s something feminine to it, because the artist must allow himself to be penetrated and possessed by outside forces. Socrates called himself a midwife of philosophy. I doubt that he was, but I do not doubt the concept. True philosophy and true art can only be achieved by embracing this feminine element and allowing yourself to go pregnant. Not in body, but in spirit. Combine the two, a mastery of your craft, insight, and the willingness to work, with your own form of frenzy. Well, that’s art, and the gods will be well pleased with your struggle. I can’t promise you anything else.