You think you’re invincible — until someone arrives bearing kryptonite...
Soon after - superpowers notwithstanding - the world moves on without you.
I have this little game I occasionally play — and sadly I do so more often than I probably should: what, I wonder, will it be like if I am ‘discovered’ after I am dead? What if someone in the future reads 17 Alma Road or Tilt, Bound or At Maunston Quay, or anything else I’ve written, and sees real merit in the work, becomes my posthumous champion, conspires to have my books read, published widely, translated, lauded? What, I wonder, would that be like?
And there’s a part of me — bizarrely — that believes I will find out; that somehow I will ‘know’. Perhaps this is the imagining of an invisible ghost-like return to haunt Waterstones or Backwell’s and see my books on their tables and shelves, and watch people browsing, picking up, purchasing.
All nonsense, of course. But it’s probably as close to ‘invincibility’ as any of us is likely to come.
We’ll be missed briefly, of course; remembered fondly for a while — and then, two generations later, the vast majority will be just a name in a register somewhere. Hardly romantic I know, but to my mind it’s far better to be brutalist about it than harbour some fluffy dream.
And why is that?
Because it serves to motivate the writer in me. It reminds me that my best chance of ‘surviving’ the unwanted kryptonite gift is to stack as many chips as possible on the spin of the wheel that may finally — and perhaps belatedly — see my lucky number come up.
It’s the source of the voice which constantly nags at me and says that if The Opposite of Remembering or Once Significant Others or Crash doesn’t do the trick, then maybe the next thing I work on today, tomorrow, the week after, will be that which unlocks the door.
Of course what I really want is for the door to be unlocked now. I want to actually wander about in Waterstones and see my books there; I want to win prizes, to be invited to speak / perform. I want to be ‘validated’.
This has nothing to do with money — even though it would be splendid not to have to worry about cash for the foreseeable (short) future. The important measures are (in my case at least) entirely different. Money is merely a byproduct of the real gold: committed readership.
I have read the majority of the works of a few contemporary authors — for example: Graham Swift, Kazuo Ishiguro, Haruki Murakami, Julian Barnes — not to mention the classics of Austen, Hardy, Conrad, Dickens, Joyce… The same goes for poets too. Perhaps part of my dream — this absurd quest for immortality — is to have someone say “Ian Gouge? Yes; I’ve read just about everything he’s ever written…” This is a kind of validation which has nothing to do with money or ‘likes’ or ‘shares’, but is far more tangible and meaningful.
And perhaps it’s also absurd.
But surely an absurd dream is better than no dream at all.
Given that somewhat sadly delusional ambition, I find myself constantly struggling to square the circle when it comes to those writers who seem intent on maximising income as their primary goal. For some, most of their efforts come with a price tag attached: ‘cut-price deal to have me mentor you’, ‘sign-up for my on-line class’, ‘pay if you want to comment/engage’…
I’m not so naïve as to fail to recognise the practical wisdom of trying to monetise talent, but there’s part of me that can’t help but wonder whether some are putting the cart before the horse… Or maybe those folk are simply chasing the same end-goal as me, but are going about it a different way. Or in a more committed, self-assured way. It’s a rubicon I’ve tried crossing myself — So, you think you’re a Writer — but I don’t think I’m egotistical enough to make it stick… Maybe when the mythical day arrives, when my number finally comes up and my books appear in Waterstones, maybe it will start to stick then. Maybe I’ll have no choice.
But between now and then?
More piling of chips onto my perceived ‘lucky number’; more and more writing; more books. Carrying on and trying (in my small way) to curate an identity of sorts. More Coverstory books, more groups, more competition entries, more crossed fingers.
And I do so recognising that this is like playing ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’ with Fate — and then choosing not to acknowledge that Fate knows your every move in advance…
It’s Christmas Day tomorrow. Pass the kryptonite someone…
So, writer or artist, what's the point in it all? As an artist with a unique process of producing 'photo/Graphic' prints for over forty years, I can tell you that gradually more and more of my work finds its way into charity shops. So much for posterity. However, there are a couple of nut-cases who hunt for my work on e-bay and sometimes end up paying more than they would directly from me. I know, they told me. My books, I hope will survive me better but I write with my grandchildren in mind. On the back of my coffee-table book of words and images I have written, "A picture on the wall dwells always in the corner of your eye. A book will close to dwell quietly in the corner of your mind." Merry Christmas Ian, keep on pumping out the interesting thoughts.
And, Ian, don't forget you're a GOOD editor - and you encourage other writers at all different stages of their careers. Fine editors don't grow on trees!!! Happy Christmas!