I’ve been watching this video sort of obsessively. In it, Dan Olson, who’s a career YouTuber, draws comparisons between himself and another creator, James Rolfe, aka. “The Angry Video Game Nerd.” It’s a fascinating piece of work, even if you don’t care much about Rolfe’s work. Part callout, part artist statement, part commentary on avant garde film (specifically the film “Wavelength“), it’s been turning over in my brain a lot. I’ve spent a lot of time on this blog wondering what this blog actually is, and it sometimes feels like a collection of failures. We got about halfway through commenting on Moby Dick (though I have read Moby Dick a number of times), bailed on Clarissa (which I doubt I will ever finish), and crash landed on Sironia, Texas after 100 pages (the book itself wasn’t awful, but I would have had to address its racism at some point, and man, I am not doing that kind of tap dancing; I’m not really qualified to deconstruct that sort of thing). But I’ve had some fun successes as well; I love the entry on GG Allin and William Burroughs, I think the ones on the Necroscope series are fun, and there’s an interesting notion at the core of the Cylconopedia entry that I never really fully explored, but is still there.
At the end of the video, Olson, having completed his comparison between himself and Rolfe, who have a similar trajectory (film school to You Tube, media criticism, etc.) concludes that Rolfe is not a filmmaker; but neither is he (it’s a little more complex than that, but that is in there). And perhaps, in a similar vein, I am not a writer. But, and I want to emphasize this point, that’s mostly fine. I started the blog to put down thoughts about things I read; to record the connections I make between the worlds on the page and the other things that occupy my mind, and so on. I then, fairly quickly, grew irritated with my own self imposed schedule, and the act of “reading for the blog”. I decided to just publish when I felt inspired, and to read things I want to read, and not take as many notes about things (I still take notes while I read, something I recommend to people, but they are largely character names and small plot points, not expansive thoughts), and it all became enjoyable again. I wrote a short story, the first one I have really written since college, and am in progress on “a book”, whatever that means, and a second short story, which is in draft form.
By any measure, none of my artistic endeavors have been any great success. My best selling album probably moved 100 copies; I haven’t looked at my streaming results in ages, and I haven’t recorded any new music for a while. The band I was in has gone on an extended hiatus, but we did actually get paid every gig, including enough to take us all out for a steak dinner at one point. This blog’s audience periodically spikes when it gets a mention, but is published too infrequently to hold onto anyone. Consistency is the hobgoblin of the information age.
But I still make music. I still write. The why part is a bit of a mystery. I recall an interview with Henry Rollins where he was asked why he writes, and he responded with something like “have to”. I understand that answer, but don’t entirely relate. I’m often content with just thinking things; putting them down on paper is a separate skill, one which I occasionally find irritating. There are some authors, like Stephen King, who work until they have written around 2000 words or so (though I believe he has slowed down some as he’s gotten older). Me, I write about three times a week, and am generally happy with 1000 words on those days, but frequently have to settle for less, since, well, I am not a writer.
The internet is filled with advice for writers and readers alike. I am asked from time to time how I get so much reading done, and my answer is a combination of “read fast and don’t do things that are not reading”, with the latter half being the real secret. But also, one of the big keys is (unless you have to read things for an academic or professional pursuit) “read for yourself”. Sure, I’ll listen to recommendations, and read reviews, and find things I am interested in and make notes, but by and large I just choose books that will appeal to me, and read those. And I’m gonna say the same thing is probably true for making art; pick stuff that appeals to you, and make that. I’d also say you should release it in some form; there’s lots of ways to do that for free or on the cheap, and putting your art out there is part of what makes it art. I know there are people who will argue with me on that score, and some works of art which are deliberately made inaccessible or hidden because it’s “part of the art”. It’s beyond the scope of this essay to discuss that, but in general, I believe art should be accessible and unlimited; I understand the appeal of a sort of shared secret, or a performance being unique, but in general, anyone who wants to should be in on it.
Of course, if your artistic goal is to make actual folding money, “make art for yourself” may not be a great choice. I’ve finally started reading “Bottom’s Dream“, which is one of this blog’s great white whales. It’s batshit. I first mentioned it on this blog in 2022, where I read “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym” as a kind of preparation for it. I also read Schmidt’s “Nobodaddy’s Children” (a collection of three “novels”), and his “Collected Stories” (which took me ages to get through). Schmidt only sold in the thousands during his lifetime; and as I mentioned before, the print run of this translation comes to 2500 or so. It’s the second book I have read which contains “Tekeli-li” (“At the Mountains of Madness” being the first). It’s also another skull cracker, some 1400 pages, and weighing 13 pounds. It’s impossible to read without a bookstand, and even then it’s a pain in the ass.
And I’m probably not going to write about it too much here until I have actually finished it, in order to break that particular curse. And it’s gonna be a while. If there was some sort of cosmic compact you could enter that stated you would die until you finished the books you were reading, I would chose this one as my last book. That having been said, it’s not as fearsome as it might be. A familiarity with stream of consciousness writing, a desire to read sexually oriented puns, and a basic familiarity with some of Poe is all you need to get started; the rest just involves putting up with Schmidt’s central conceit, the notion of “etyms”, which (deep sigh) basically appears to involve an infinite set of deconstructions (or constructions) of meanings of words, which Schmidt more sought to illuminate via a nonstandard orthography.
It is, in its own way, deeply inspiring. I’m not about to attempt a Schmidt like novel, but it has given me some insights into what direction the book I am working on might take. Will the book ever see the light of day? Will I even try and publish it?
I don’t know, man. I’m not a writer.
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In addition to wearing the hairshirt of Bottom’s Dream, I am still working on the biography of Ian Fleming “The Complete Man”, which is now getting around to discussing his writing, “Memories of Ice,” (the third book in the Malazan Book of the Fallen series, which I have chosen as my “take a break” reading, perhaps stupidly, as there’s a lot to keep track of), and “Think : A Compelling Introduction to Philosophy”, which is compelling, I guess.
The Lithole 