As you can see, I am a white male of a certain age and thus not to be taken terribly seriously ... if at all in the current climate.
But, if you have somehow reached this blog, you can think of yourself as a member of a tiny socio-cultural elite. Nothing contained herein has ever gone viral and hopefully never will. Far better that way, given the state of the world. In addition, there are no ads, nothing to buy and nowhere to make a contribution to my well being. Amazing!
As per the title, this blog is mainly, but not entirely about fiction. But most of the other material is closely related to fiction in that if one is writing or reading a story, one may want or need to think about such topics.
I hope what you find here is useful, entertaining and hopefully just a bit thought provoking.
Enjoy!
--------------
As per the title, this blog is mainly, but not entirely about fiction. But most of the other material is closely related to fiction in that if one is writing or reading a story, one may want or need to think about such topics.
I hope what you find here is useful, entertaining and hopefully just a bit thought provoking.
Enjoy!
--------------
I started the blog in 2015 because my first work of fiction, "Manhattan Morning," was then scheduled to be published as an e-book. It had taken me years to get to that point -- both to write the story, ponder its merits and then to decide what to do with it.
If one goes the traditional route, one's publisher is in charge of marketing. And, of course, the clear implication is that if a publisher has spent money to purchase, print and market a work of fiction, it must be a good read. Although self-publication is now far more acceptable than it once was, it is fair to wonder if anyone other than the author thinks a book that emerges in such fashion is any good.
So the whole exercise is along the lines of "Field of Dreams," where the construction of a ballpark in a remote Iowa cornfield was based on the notion "if you build it, he will come" -- "he" in that case being Shoeless Joe Jackson. Joe's arrival would presumably lead to the arrival of other players as well and the field would be a greater success than the field of corn it had supplanted.
In time, popular use of the phrase has been corrupted to "if you build it, they will come," which in this case might be interpreted to mean that if you write something you believe is worthwhile, readers will somehow find it.
I tried this once before with a wine blog with partial success. Hardly anyone found it when it was out in cyberspace on its own, but when a long-established wine blog kindly provided a link to my site -- and when Google added indexing -- visitors began to arrive on a regular basis.
The New York Times now includes e-books in its best seller lists. And the Web is full of advice for e-book authors as to how best to market and promote their wares. Needless to say, an author's website, a Facebook page (I tried both, but results were unsatisfactory) and a Twitter account (not for me at the moment) are all highly recommended. Then, of course, one has to know how to use them to best advantage. There, I am sure I fell short, in large part for wont of trying. I'm not very comfortable with overt self-promotion.
The reason: "Manhattan Morning," and probably other stories I may publish, is not particularly commercial. It doesn't feature murder, rape, terrorism, explosions, vampires, bizarre sex, treachery or an exotic location -- to name just a few of the things that appear to sell fiction in significant volume. Attempting to promote it aggressively would inevitably result in oversell and who knows, even spark a backlash.
Why did I first seek to charge money for it then? In our very commercial society, "free" implies either worthless or that if one takes the bait, one will be exploited in one form or another. Rightly or wrongly, we tend to judge worth by what something costs. In that context, pricing is a delicate matter: high enough to imply worth, but not so high as to be a deterrent.
While my novella was for that reason priced at $2.99, or about the cost of a cup of Starbucks coffee, I didn't expect any resulting revenue to be, shall we say, bankable, and, indeed, it wasn't. In fact, the whole enterprise was akin to writing a note, sealing it up in a bottle and tossing the bottle into the sea with an out-going tide. Someone may find it, take the trouble to open it and even find the contents interesting. Stranger things have happened -- maybe.
Why, then, write a blog?
In part because of the notion of intentions.
The Sunday "New York Times" book review section had for some time, at its conclusion, a page labeled "Bookends" where two people with literary credentials horsed over a particular topic. On March 15, 2015, the topic was "Should an author's intentions matter?" -- a fascinating question, in my opinion.
The exchange of views was a little disappointing, but not without merit.
Zoe Heller, an author of several books, basically punted. She used her two columns of space to express regrets over becoming enamored in college with the prevailing deconstructionist approach to literature. As she put it, stories were to be viewed as "boundless 'texts,' to which no fixed or final meanings could be assigned." In other words, whatever an author might have intended was irrelevant, or at least beside the point. (Good news for most authors: the leading exponent of this approach, Jacques Derrida died in 2004 although his influence lives on.)
On that basis, it doesn't take an infinite number of monkeys banging away on an infinite number of typewriters to write a Shakespearian sonnet: one monkey will suffice.
Heller says she "eventually slunk back, tail between my legs, to the ranks of Humble Consumers" -- folks content to receive what an author offers at face value. My guess is she hopes the majority of those who read her own books feel the same way.
The second commentator -- Adam Kirsch, identified as a poet, critic and columnist -- opined that ultimately, readers determine the intention of authors. "The history of literature shows that, in practice, what an author believed she was doing in her work has no real sovereignty over later readers' interpretations. Indeed, one way of defining great literature is that it allows itself to be endlessly reinterpreted."
No wonder T.S. Eliot (not a 'she' despite reportedly walking around at night from time to time wearing makeup) is ranked high in the canon.
Another way to consider the topic is to look at the world of contemporary art where almost anything can be viewed as an object or expression of art, as long as it has been created by an artist (just who is or isn't an artist is an episodic topic of this blog). In many cases, it is difficult to know when or whether such a work has been completed (guideposts have pretty much vanished) and, we are told, works whose states are not particularly obvious, are in fact complete when the artist has realized his or her intentions.
It is easy to find literature that might fit the same description, and, indeed some may say that is the case with respect to "Manhattan Morning." It realized my intentions, which is why I decided to publish it, but that may not be obvious to readers.
I do, however, think that it is important that readers have at least a sense of what an author hoped to achieve because knowing that, they can then, along one axis of analysis at any rate, determine whether the work is any good. So, to help out, I've provided my own exegesis on my website, and I will also discuss some aspects of the story in subsequent blog posts. Comments are welcome.
But at the end of the day, Mr. Kirsch may be correct. I say that because a number of friends have read drafts of "Manhattan Morning" and other stories I have written (but not yet published) and reactions have varied widely. In fact, it is rare, I have discovered, when any two people think the same thing.
Hmmm. Perhaps the deconstructionists aren't so far off base after all.
So the whole exercise is along the lines of "Field of Dreams," where the construction of a ballpark in a remote Iowa cornfield was based on the notion "if you build it, he will come" -- "he" in that case being Shoeless Joe Jackson. Joe's arrival would presumably lead to the arrival of other players as well and the field would be a greater success than the field of corn it had supplanted.
In time, popular use of the phrase has been corrupted to "if you build it, they will come," which in this case might be interpreted to mean that if you write something you believe is worthwhile, readers will somehow find it.
I tried this once before with a wine blog with partial success. Hardly anyone found it when it was out in cyberspace on its own, but when a long-established wine blog kindly provided a link to my site -- and when Google added indexing -- visitors began to arrive on a regular basis.
The New York Times now includes e-books in its best seller lists. And the Web is full of advice for e-book authors as to how best to market and promote their wares. Needless to say, an author's website, a Facebook page (I tried both, but results were unsatisfactory) and a Twitter account (not for me at the moment) are all highly recommended. Then, of course, one has to know how to use them to best advantage. There, I am sure I fell short, in large part for wont of trying. I'm not very comfortable with overt self-promotion.
The reason: "Manhattan Morning," and probably other stories I may publish, is not particularly commercial. It doesn't feature murder, rape, terrorism, explosions, vampires, bizarre sex, treachery or an exotic location -- to name just a few of the things that appear to sell fiction in significant volume. Attempting to promote it aggressively would inevitably result in oversell and who knows, even spark a backlash.
Why did I first seek to charge money for it then? In our very commercial society, "free" implies either worthless or that if one takes the bait, one will be exploited in one form or another. Rightly or wrongly, we tend to judge worth by what something costs. In that context, pricing is a delicate matter: high enough to imply worth, but not so high as to be a deterrent.
While my novella was for that reason priced at $2.99, or about the cost of a cup of Starbucks coffee, I didn't expect any resulting revenue to be, shall we say, bankable, and, indeed, it wasn't. In fact, the whole enterprise was akin to writing a note, sealing it up in a bottle and tossing the bottle into the sea with an out-going tide. Someone may find it, take the trouble to open it and even find the contents interesting. Stranger things have happened -- maybe.
Why, then, write a blog?
In part because of the notion of intentions.
The Sunday "New York Times" book review section had for some time, at its conclusion, a page labeled "Bookends" where two people with literary credentials horsed over a particular topic. On March 15, 2015, the topic was "Should an author's intentions matter?" -- a fascinating question, in my opinion.
The exchange of views was a little disappointing, but not without merit.
Zoe Heller, an author of several books, basically punted. She used her two columns of space to express regrets over becoming enamored in college with the prevailing deconstructionist approach to literature. As she put it, stories were to be viewed as "boundless 'texts,' to which no fixed or final meanings could be assigned." In other words, whatever an author might have intended was irrelevant, or at least beside the point. (Good news for most authors: the leading exponent of this approach, Jacques Derrida died in 2004 although his influence lives on.)
On that basis, it doesn't take an infinite number of monkeys banging away on an infinite number of typewriters to write a Shakespearian sonnet: one monkey will suffice.
Heller says she "eventually slunk back, tail between my legs, to the ranks of Humble Consumers" -- folks content to receive what an author offers at face value. My guess is she hopes the majority of those who read her own books feel the same way.
The second commentator -- Adam Kirsch, identified as a poet, critic and columnist -- opined that ultimately, readers determine the intention of authors. "The history of literature shows that, in practice, what an author believed she was doing in her work has no real sovereignty over later readers' interpretations. Indeed, one way of defining great literature is that it allows itself to be endlessly reinterpreted."
No wonder T.S. Eliot (not a 'she' despite reportedly walking around at night from time to time wearing makeup) is ranked high in the canon.
Another way to consider the topic is to look at the world of contemporary art where almost anything can be viewed as an object or expression of art, as long as it has been created by an artist (just who is or isn't an artist is an episodic topic of this blog). In many cases, it is difficult to know when or whether such a work has been completed (guideposts have pretty much vanished) and, we are told, works whose states are not particularly obvious, are in fact complete when the artist has realized his or her intentions.
It is easy to find literature that might fit the same description, and, indeed some may say that is the case with respect to "Manhattan Morning." It realized my intentions, which is why I decided to publish it, but that may not be obvious to readers.
I do, however, think that it is important that readers have at least a sense of what an author hoped to achieve because knowing that, they can then, along one axis of analysis at any rate, determine whether the work is any good. So, to help out, I've provided my own exegesis on my website, and I will also discuss some aspects of the story in subsequent blog posts. Comments are welcome.
But at the end of the day, Mr. Kirsch may be correct. I say that because a number of friends have read drafts of "Manhattan Morning" and other stories I have written (but not yet published) and reactions have varied widely. In fact, it is rare, I have discovered, when any two people think the same thing.
Hmmm. Perhaps the deconstructionists aren't so far off base after all.
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