Thanks for this haunting essay. It made me think of “writer’s lifts” and other cynical ways to build a social media following. Surely anonymity and silence are preferable to those self-abasing displays. Yet I must admit that secrecy of this kind rubs me wrong in a different way because it’s not just a rejection of the market, it’s a rejection of another principle of art, which is to reach people. I distrust art that is deliberately withheld, that requires me to know a guy to access it. This is how one builds a cult following, like Thomas Pynchon’s, and it is similar to the principle behind the Pappy Van Winkle reserves, which are perhaps more coveted than they ought to be.
At the same time, you capture the alienation of the writer-self beautifully and devastatingly. Winning the book publishing lottery does seem to mean agreeing to something uncomfortably similar to hosting a trashy talk show, dangling clickbait questions and memes to attract more followers. And it is abhorrent that web traffic matters more than the work itself, at least to the publishing gatekeepers.
Still, being a writer to me means trying to reach readers in good faith. I think this is also the hope expressed in Mary’s example above from Tillie Olsen. I can’t believe that “Prickett” simply doesn’t care about being read, and I’m suspicious of artificial exclusivity. Should we have to join a Freemason’s guild just to get a copy? Is that really what art requires?
You ain't wrong. I went back and forth on "Foodie" with exactly what you said, which is that an artist who actively withholds their work out of a sense of artistic purity is just another way to (potentially) inflate the ego. My hope is that whoever "Prickett" is, they did this as an experiment and are publishing other work in a less pseudonymous name somewhere else.
I'm glad you mentioned Pynchon because try as I might, I've tried to read "The Crying Lot" about three times (mostly because it's one of his shortest texts) and I have failed to get past page 30 every single time. So much of what I presumed was "great literature" growing up--insert Gaddis, Faulkner, Woolf's "The Waves"--was the kind of art that made me feel confused and like an idiot. To the extent that "Foodie" seems to be incredibly approachable (once it's in our hands, at least), I applaud it. But I can't say I wouldn't prefer to be able to *actually* read it all the way through.
Samuél, well-said. When I was re-reading Tillie Olsen for my post here: https://marytabor.substack.com/p/have-you-been-silenced-lesson-12, I included this quote from her book _Silences_: “What follow is the blues. Writer, don’t read it. You know it anyway, you live it; and have probably read it in one way or place or another before and said better. This is for readers to whom it may be news. An unrevised draft is all I can bring myself to.
“When Van Gogh … said:
The dissatisfaction about bad work, the failure of things, the difficulties of technique … and then to swallow that despair and that melancholy … to struggle on notwithstanding thousands of shortcomings and faults and the uncertainty of conquering them … All this complicated by material difficulties … One works hard, but still one cannot make ends meet “He was speaking for most dedicated writers. Ah, if that were all.
“ ‘Who will read me, who will care?’ It does not help the work to be done, that work already completed is surrounded by silence and indifference—if it is published at all. Few books ever have the attention of a review—good or bad. Fewer stay longer than a few weeks on bookstore shelves, if they get there at all. … ‘Works of art’ (or at least books, stories, poems, meriting life) ‘disappear before our very eyes because of the absence of responsible attention,’ Chekhov wrote nearly ninety years ago. Are they even seen? Out of the moveable feast, critics and academics tend to invoke the same dozen or so writers as if none else exist worthy of mention, or as if they’ve never troubled to read anyone else.”
Wow, that Checkhov quote really hits home. It reminds me of Rilke's words in "Letters to a Young Poet":
"Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them."
I'm mostly just damn thankful to be able to have conversations like this on the Internet again, thanks to Substack and collectives like The Inner Life, and mostly thanks to people like you who engage not as a duty but as a matter of lifestyle. Here's to the pursuit of more true mystery, and the endless adventure to try and illuminate the secrets without ourselves.
In just about a year on this space, I can genuinely say I am the most motivated and inspired that I have ever been interacting with the world of fiction. Here's to embarking on the journey, in any case. All we can do is keep sharing ourselves with each other.
Lawd, I'm a far cry away from egoless when it comes to the Internet (just ONE more LIKE, ONE more FOLLOW), but here's to fighting the good fight with dreams of Elysium.
Thanks for this haunting essay. It made me think of “writer’s lifts” and other cynical ways to build a social media following. Surely anonymity and silence are preferable to those self-abasing displays. Yet I must admit that secrecy of this kind rubs me wrong in a different way because it’s not just a rejection of the market, it’s a rejection of another principle of art, which is to reach people. I distrust art that is deliberately withheld, that requires me to know a guy to access it. This is how one builds a cult following, like Thomas Pynchon’s, and it is similar to the principle behind the Pappy Van Winkle reserves, which are perhaps more coveted than they ought to be.
At the same time, you capture the alienation of the writer-self beautifully and devastatingly. Winning the book publishing lottery does seem to mean agreeing to something uncomfortably similar to hosting a trashy talk show, dangling clickbait questions and memes to attract more followers. And it is abhorrent that web traffic matters more than the work itself, at least to the publishing gatekeepers.
Still, being a writer to me means trying to reach readers in good faith. I think this is also the hope expressed in Mary’s example above from Tillie Olsen. I can’t believe that “Prickett” simply doesn’t care about being read, and I’m suspicious of artificial exclusivity. Should we have to join a Freemason’s guild just to get a copy? Is that really what art requires?
Interesting comment! I agree about the exclusivity, it feels little off.
You ain't wrong. I went back and forth on "Foodie" with exactly what you said, which is that an artist who actively withholds their work out of a sense of artistic purity is just another way to (potentially) inflate the ego. My hope is that whoever "Prickett" is, they did this as an experiment and are publishing other work in a less pseudonymous name somewhere else.
I'm glad you mentioned Pynchon because try as I might, I've tried to read "The Crying Lot" about three times (mostly because it's one of his shortest texts) and I have failed to get past page 30 every single time. So much of what I presumed was "great literature" growing up--insert Gaddis, Faulkner, Woolf's "The Waves"--was the kind of art that made me feel confused and like an idiot. To the extent that "Foodie" seems to be incredibly approachable (once it's in our hands, at least), I applaud it. But I can't say I wouldn't prefer to be able to *actually* read it all the way through.
Samuél, well-said. When I was re-reading Tillie Olsen for my post here: https://marytabor.substack.com/p/have-you-been-silenced-lesson-12, I included this quote from her book _Silences_: “What follow is the blues. Writer, don’t read it. You know it anyway, you live it; and have probably read it in one way or place or another before and said better. This is for readers to whom it may be news. An unrevised draft is all I can bring myself to.
“When Van Gogh … said:
The dissatisfaction about bad work, the failure of things, the difficulties of technique … and then to swallow that despair and that melancholy … to struggle on notwithstanding thousands of shortcomings and faults and the uncertainty of conquering them … All this complicated by material difficulties … One works hard, but still one cannot make ends meet “He was speaking for most dedicated writers. Ah, if that were all.
“ ‘Who will read me, who will care?’ It does not help the work to be done, that work already completed is surrounded by silence and indifference—if it is published at all. Few books ever have the attention of a review—good or bad. Fewer stay longer than a few weeks on bookstore shelves, if they get there at all. … ‘Works of art’ (or at least books, stories, poems, meriting life) ‘disappear before our very eyes because of the absence of responsible attention,’ Chekhov wrote nearly ninety years ago. Are they even seen? Out of the moveable feast, critics and academics tend to invoke the same dozen or so writers as if none else exist worthy of mention, or as if they’ve never troubled to read anyone else.”
Wow, that Checkhov quote really hits home. It reminds me of Rilke's words in "Letters to a Young Poet":
"Works of art are of an infinite solitude, and no means of approach is so useless as criticism. Only love can touch and hold them and be fair to them."
I'm mostly just damn thankful to be able to have conversations like this on the Internet again, thanks to Substack and collectives like The Inner Life, and mostly thanks to people like you who engage not as a duty but as a matter of lifestyle. Here's to the pursuit of more true mystery, and the endless adventure to try and illuminate the secrets without ourselves.
So true, lovely to find these discussions here on Substack...
I get tired writing what don’t exist for who don’t exist - Flannery O’Connor.
Nailed it.
Thanks Samuél, kinda hoping this is fiction publishing on Substack.
In just about a year on this space, I can genuinely say I am the most motivated and inspired that I have ever been interacting with the world of fiction. Here's to embarking on the journey, in any case. All we can do is keep sharing ourselves with each other.
Amen. And there’s something incredibly revitalising about an egoless journey of discovery that may yet lead us to the Elysian Fields. Glad to connect.
Lawd, I'm a far cry away from egoless when it comes to the Internet (just ONE more LIKE, ONE more FOLLOW), but here's to fighting the good fight with dreams of Elysium.
😂 Fair enough. Someone has to get the glory on here, Samuél! Let me know when you uncover the golden path.