That Hemingway is at the centre of this project is, ironically, irrelevant. I don’t much enjoy the writing (though he did write several very good short stories, The Killers and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, not being among them in my view).
I think his — small — gift was for short story writing and most certainly not for novels which strike me as nothing but mediocre Boys’ Own adventure potboilers. Brett Ashley has a modicum of oomph, but that drippy Catherine Barkley is not even two-dimensional.
And, furthermore, from what I have learned of the man over these past few years — yes, it’s now been that sodding long! — he and I would not have got on, not for two seconds. Hemingway was ‘larger than life’ and proof if proof were needed that the phrase is simply code for ’a complete pain in the arse’.
I am one of those who acknowledges that we all have our good traits and our less pleasant traits, but more to the point just one or two bad traits can play havoc with quite a few good traits. Put another way, one bad trait can negate ten good traits.
I am undoubtedly rather less aware of my own bad traits than others are, but I am aware of some: and — time for Mr Smug to show his cheery face — I don’t believe I am irredeemably awful. (Apostates, please leave a comment below, then fuck off.)
Anyway to get back on the straight and narrow and try to meander a little less, I’m keen to finish this project so I can get on with what I should really be doing. Oh, and bugger any thoughts of ‘being published’, just getting it done and proving to myself that I am not just another incarnation of Joe Bullshit will be fine by me. Honestly.
I am one of those who acknowledges that we all have our good traits and our less pleasant traits, but more to the point just one or two bad traits can play havoc with quite a few good traits. Put another way, one bad trait can negate ten good traits.
I am undoubtedly rather less aware of my own bad traits than others are, but I am aware of some: and — time for Mr Smug to show his cheery face — I don’t believe I am irredeemably awful. (Apostates, please leave a comment below, then fuck off.)
Anyway to get back on the straight and narrow and try to meander a little less, I’m keen to finish this project so I can get on with what I should really be doing. Oh, and bugger any thoughts of ‘being published’, just getting it done and proving to myself that I am not just another incarnation of Joe Bullshit will be fine by me. Honestly.
That is one of the few benefits of growing older (and far less visible to attractive women — sad but true): you tend have fewer illusions.
Along those lines, I came across a rule-of-thumb statistic several years ago which is always worth remembering and I don’t doubt essentially true: for every 1,000 novels that are written, one is published; for every 1,001 novels that are published, one sells a little. And to that one might add: for every 10,001 novels talked about, planned, dreamed up and I don’t know what, 100 are started and just one is completed.
I write all this — and only now am I getting around to what kicked it off in the first place — because this walking minority report has come across something which has again touched upon what puzzles, not to say, baffles me.
Earlier today, wanting to read a piece by Hemingway biographer Jeffery Meyers that appeared in the Times Literary Supplement six years ago, I took out a digital subscription to the TLS, and decided to get my money’s worth and mosey around, using the search term ‘Hemingway’. There was not a great deal, but I did come across this.
First of all, I am put off by the, often obligatory, reference to ‘genius’. Worse, Gertrude Stein looses even more points by proclaiming herself to be a ‘genius’. Now, Yanks reading that might not be too upset, but we Brits are a little more particular in such matters (‘particular’ being the Brit word for ‘uptight’): the upshot is, you don’t do it.
Along those lines, I came across a rule-of-thumb statistic several years ago which is always worth remembering and I don’t doubt essentially true: for every 1,000 novels that are written, one is published; for every 1,001 novels that are published, one sells a little. And to that one might add: for every 10,001 novels talked about, planned, dreamed up and I don’t know what, 100 are started and just one is completed.
I write all this — and only now am I getting around to what kicked it off in the first place — because this walking minority report has come across something which has again touched upon what puzzles, not to say, baffles me.
Earlier today, wanting to read a piece by Hemingway biographer Jeffery Meyers that appeared in the Times Literary Supplement six years ago, I took out a digital subscription to the TLS, and decided to get my money’s worth and mosey around, using the search term ‘Hemingway’. There was not a great deal, but I did come across this.
First of all, I am put off by the, often obligatory, reference to ‘genius’. Worse, Gertrude Stein looses even more points by proclaiming herself to be a ‘genius’. Now, Yanks reading that might not be too upset, but we Brits are a little more particular in such matters (‘particular’ being the Brit word for ‘uptight’): the upshot is, you don’t do it.
If someone else wants to proclaim you as ‘a genius’ fair enough but watch your arse though no harm is done. If someone declares her or himself as a genius — no more sherry and Bath Olivers for you, good chap, now on your bike!
I have never read anything by Stein and certainly not her 1,000-word opus The Making Of Americans, but that got me to thinking: has anyone? I have come across excerpts of it, and I wasn’t encouraged to seek out any more excerpts. But then, let’s face it, I might well be a philistine. More to the point, what ‘should’ novels be about?
To talk about that we must get past the first hurdle, the — to my mind spurious — distinction between ‘literature’ and every other piece of fiction that is published. Should we distinguish? Well, no, we shouldn’t.
Those who champion ‘literature’ might like to think that ‘literature’ is marked out by writing that deals with the ‘higher’ things in life and existence, ‘the human condition’ and all that, and ‘every other piece of fiction’ doesn’t (although, sometimes it does, but let’s not quibble). But, but in fact, surely what is pertinent here is how well something it done. I seem to be retreading my last blog entry here, but what the hell. It’s all ‘literature’!
The distinguishing factors are that somehow some books appeal to us on a different level to a workaday thrillers or chic lit or whatever your bag might be. And who is not to say that even such ‘downmarket’ writing might not have more subtle undercurrents?
But having said that, it would be almost impossible to lay down qualifications. For example, a year or two ago I read Saturday by one Ian McEwan, a literary writer who has more sodding awards than you can shake a stick at (and I reviewed it here). And as far as I was concerned it was shite. Quite awful. Yet McEwan is — or possibly now ‘was’ — one of the big noises in the British literary scene, hence the awards.
I am well aware of the cosy underlying nexus which drives the literary industry: in no particular order, writers want to be read and so need a publisher; publishers want to sell books and so need writers they think will sell; to sell they must indulge in the below deck marketing of being mentioned in the Books pages of publications and on the Books programmes of radio and TV; those Books pages and programmes need ‘copy/subject matter’, so they are only too glad to play ball with the publishers (one back scratching the others); then it comes back to the writer: the astute scribbler will get to know what kind of book the publishers want to sell and will supply it.
I have never read anything by Stein and certainly not her 1,000-word opus The Making Of Americans, but that got me to thinking: has anyone? I have come across excerpts of it, and I wasn’t encouraged to seek out any more excerpts. But then, let’s face it, I might well be a philistine. More to the point, what ‘should’ novels be about?
To talk about that we must get past the first hurdle, the — to my mind spurious — distinction between ‘literature’ and every other piece of fiction that is published. Should we distinguish? Well, no, we shouldn’t.
Those who champion ‘literature’ might like to think that ‘literature’ is marked out by writing that deals with the ‘higher’ things in life and existence, ‘the human condition’ and all that, and ‘every other piece of fiction’ doesn’t (although, sometimes it does, but let’s not quibble). But, but in fact, surely what is pertinent here is how well something it done. I seem to be retreading my last blog entry here, but what the hell. It’s all ‘literature’!
The distinguishing factors are that somehow some books appeal to us on a different level to a workaday thrillers or chic lit or whatever your bag might be. And who is not to say that even such ‘downmarket’ writing might not have more subtle undercurrents?
But having said that, it would be almost impossible to lay down qualifications. For example, a year or two ago I read Saturday by one Ian McEwan, a literary writer who has more sodding awards than you can shake a stick at (and I reviewed it here). And as far as I was concerned it was shite. Quite awful. Yet McEwan is — or possibly now ‘was’ — one of the big noises in the British literary scene, hence the awards.
I am well aware of the cosy underlying nexus which drives the literary industry: in no particular order, writers want to be read and so need a publisher; publishers want to sell books and so need writers they think will sell; to sell they must indulge in the below deck marketing of being mentioned in the Books pages of publications and on the Books programmes of radio and TV; those Books pages and programmes need ‘copy/subject matter’, so they are only too glad to play ball with the publishers (one back scratching the others); then it comes back to the writer: the astute scribbler will get to know what kind of book the publishers want to sell and will supply it.
Those who don’t deliver the particular ‘saleable goods’ can frankly go hang.
I don’t read any ‘new writers’. Quite apart from having most of my reading time taken up with stuff about Hemingway, my view is that there are too many books which have stood the test of time which I might enjoy before I start dicking around with ‘modern literature’ (or that phoney old, oxymoronic standby, a ‘new classic’, though hats off to the cynic in the marketing department who first dreamed up that one).
Do really want to read ‘an important new novel’ outlining how the world is heading to eco-disaster? Or how family life is awful / fantastic? Or growing up gay in an Amish/mining/black community? Granted, the proof of the pudding is always in the eating or to put another way ‘it’s not the joke but the way you tell it’, and we should always be ready to be surprised by a new talent. But . . .
That might go some way to explaining why — sour grapes notwithstanding, obviously — I am not holding my breath about ‘getting a publisher’.
I realise I have meandered a little too much in this entry, but — well, tough titties. But I shall end by yet again plugging — for the umpteenth time a rather promising novel (which happens to be by me. Oh, and always remember never to judge a book by its cover, quite literally in this case.
I don’t read any ‘new writers’. Quite apart from having most of my reading time taken up with stuff about Hemingway, my view is that there are too many books which have stood the test of time which I might enjoy before I start dicking around with ‘modern literature’ (or that phoney old, oxymoronic standby, a ‘new classic’, though hats off to the cynic in the marketing department who first dreamed up that one).
Do really want to read ‘an important new novel’ outlining how the world is heading to eco-disaster? Or how family life is awful / fantastic? Or growing up gay in an Amish/mining/black community? Granted, the proof of the pudding is always in the eating or to put another way ‘it’s not the joke but the way you tell it’, and we should always be ready to be surprised by a new talent. But . . .
That might go some way to explaining why — sour grapes notwithstanding, obviously — I am not holding my breath about ‘getting a publisher’.
I realise I have meandered a little too much in this entry, but — well, tough titties. But I shall end by yet again plugging — for the umpteenth time a rather promising novel (which happens to be by me. Oh, and always remember never to judge a book by its cover, quite literally in this case.
It’s called Love: A Fiction, you can find it here and if by some fluke someone in publishing or even with a tenuous connection to publishing reads this, do yourself a favour and check it out. You might, if nothing else, at least find it is an enjoyable read — no eco disaster, no gay character, not family trauma, nothing.
Oh, and even if you are too tight-fisted to buy it but noted my comments on the literary industry merry-go-round, you could at least — it will cost you nothing — check out this short story.
Pip, pip.
Pip, pip.
