Sci-fi author Holly Lisle resigns from the Science Fiction Writers of America over the *shocking* idea that the organisation might start winning funds to pay grants to writers. Because of course an additional funding stream for sci-fi writers is the Worst Imaginable Crime Ever.
“Giving” grants taken from tax dollars is nothing less than theft of taxpayer money. This action forces people who have no interest in the careers of writers receiving grants to support those writers’ work, no matter how distasteful, badly written, or objectionable they might find it.
It is institutionalized thuggery, and were I to remain a member, I would brand myself complicit with the thugs.
It’s always trivially easy to demonstrate the short sightedness of Libertarian “thinkers” of this kind. Ms Lisle is an author who wants to sell popular fiction to the masses. How on earth does she intend to do this without the tax funded state education system and the massive increase in literacy rates it facilitates? Unless of course she intends her work to be audio only.
PS – among the vast number of famous authors have received state grants is none other than…J K Rowling! Without the £5000 grant she received from Arts Council England to write Harry Potter, the British economy would have lost billions from its publishing, film, culture and tourism industries. Awww…Libertarians are fun but not so smart.
Style is a little easier to observe in music than in literature. Great musicians occupy a very clear musical style. Blues. Country. Pop. Rock. Classical. Reggae. Ska. That doesn’t mean that Bob Marley never cranked out a heavy metal riff or that Slash can’t do a Reggae rhythm. But there’s something a little forced and artificial when a talented musician steps into a style not quite their own.
You might study many styles as a creator, but at some point you have to commit to making in just one. Because the techniques of your craft aren’t agnostic of style. As a novelist you can learn the general techniques of plotting, but if you want to write thrillers you’ll need to learn the unique plot structures that thrillers employ. Once you add together all the stylistic elements of a thriller, from it’s character archetypes to its thematic concerns, you end up with a lot to learn.
The “trunk novels” many young writers have hidden away are often attempts to find and then master a style. Once you get there, you may be able to go back and rework some of those novels, as Iain M Banks did with the sci-fi novels written in his 20s, that became the early Culture novels over a decade later. Most writers also have notebooks filled with book fragments that explore different styles to find the one that suits them.
Experimenting with style is a learning process. I’m never going to write a sci-fi mashup based on Moby Dick. But I have four chapters of one in an Evernote file. I learned some important things from the time I spent plotting it out, things about the different fiction styles I was mashing together. But I’m glad I didn’t try and push through to the end of it as a book. It’s not a style I love deeply, just one I was playing with.
You have to love the style you write in, much the same way you must love the house you live in, or the friends you choose to live with. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together, and if there’s no love, that’s not going to be any fun at all. That doesn’t mean it’s your job to blindly ape the style of your creative forbears. All creators rebel against the old guard of their style, in the way all children eventually rebel against their parents. But while we may not like to admit it, there’s as much love in rebellion as there is in conformity.
Joe Abercrombie needs little introduction. He’s one of the most successful fantasy authors working today and the face of “grimdark” both for the sub-genres fans and its detractors. In this forthright interview Abercrombie attacks the concept of grimdark head on, questions fantasy fictions habit of re-writing Tolkien, and shares his thoughts on writing for young adults.
Ahimsa Kerp is the best new author of pulp inspired fantasy of the last two years. Empire of the Undead was the most compelling apocalypse novels I’ve read since The Stand. His new book, Beneath the Mantle, is a smart riff on Journey to the Centre of the World. He’sa writer to watch, but importantly, to read. ~Damien Walter
Grimdark. What is it?
Joe Abercrombie in discussion with Ahimsa Kerp
“I think any argument that splits the whole vast and varied, weird and wonderful tapestry of fantasy into two opposed camps is fundamentally dumb and doesn’t stand up to the slightest scrutiny.”
Ahimsa Kerp (AK) – Thank you for agreeing to do this! I believe you’ve just finished edits on Half a War, the third book in your YA trilogy Shattered Sea. Congratulations! I recently read Half a King and greatly enjoyed it. And that brings me to my first question.What is your secret to writing good YA? Is it difficult to pitch your story so that it is accessible to both teens and adults? Did you ever consider including a love triangle or gimmicky voice? How beholden to tropes or sub-genres do you feel?
Joe Abercrombie (JA) – I think if there’s any secret it’s just to write very much the same way you would for an adult audience. I wasn’t necessarily trying to write something that fitted into a given category and I’m not expert at all on the current YA field, I was really just trying to write the kind of book I would have wanted to read aged 12-16, and that’s substantially very similar to what I’d want to read now. I think the thing to remember about young adults is that they’re first of all adults – just young ones. They’re dealing with big decisions and serious issues in their lives for the first time and want fiction that speaks to that. Quite apart from the fact that most YA is read by people over 18, of course. For me it was about writing from the point of view of young adult protagonists, and also writing something quicker, sharper, more focused, more compact. Also a slightly different tone with less swearing and less explicit sex and violence, but I’d like to think these are books that are just as challenging and morally complex as my adult stuff, and will work pretty well for my established adult readers.
“Ah, grimdark, grimdark, what is it? I much preferred it when it was an out and out piss-take”
AK – It must have been quite enjoyable to research a Norse-inspired world. Did you read any of the Icelandic sagas? And were there any other interesting discoveries you made that you would recommend for a de facto bibliography?
JA – I have read a fair bit of norse myth and saga in the past. For this I re-read some of the historical children’s fiction I read as a kid – Rosemary Sutcliff, Henry Treece, John Cristopher – and found a lot of it holds up surprisingly well. But also adult historical fiction by Robert Low and Bernard Cornwell, Frans Bengtsson’s brilliant faux-saga The Long Ships, a lot of non-fiction about the vikings too.
AK – Joe Abercrombie has become the face of a subgenre: the lazily denominated faux-portmanteau “grimdark.” You’ve called it unheroic fantasy, others use terms like “dark fantasy” or “scoundrel lit” or “nuanced adult fiction.” What would you say are the defining characteristics of the subgenre? Would you include a non-genre writer like Cormac Mccarthy in that conversation?
JA – Ah, grimdark, grimdark, what is it? I much preferred it when it was an out and out piss-take, an insult for stuff that was ridiculous, excessive, absurdly dark, brutal, cynical, humourless. Now some people say they love grim dark, and I never know what people are referring to when they use the word. Nay-sayers try to define everything of value out to support their argument that it’s worthless, supporters try to include everything from Game of Thrones to A Christmas Carol. It’s true that a book like Blood Meridian is a great deal grimmer, darker, bleaker and bloodier than pretty much anything you’ll find in the fantasy section. I guess what I refer to as unheroic fantasy needs unheroic characters, a cynical worldview, often a focus on character rather than setting, blurred lines between good and bad, an unflinching approach to the details of sex and violence and their consequences. Lots of the seedier side of life rather than the shiny.
AK – A common thread of unheroic fantasy writers is an interest and/or background in actual world history. Given that writers who base their stories off history tend to have darker themes, does that lend credence to the idea that grimdark is more realistic? And is that the same as saying it’s less contrived?
JA – Realism is always a tough word to use in relation to fantasy, or for that matter fiction of any kind. I’m sure much shinier and more optimistic writers have taken plenty of inspiration from history too. We’re never aiming for realism, especially when writing fantasy where we’re deliberately doing something exaggerated, larger than life, but we are perhaps aiming at something that feels in some way honest, that says something about our world as it is. And the world clearly does contain lots of darkness, violence, death, despair, filth, pain and etc. so to ignore those things, especially in a book that focuses on war and warriors and mighty struggles, can seem a little dishonest. The world clearly does contain nobility, self-sacrifice, achievement and hope and so you wouldn’t want a story that entirely elides or ignores the possibility of those things but, speaking for myself, the First Law was always intended to sit somewhat on the other side of the scales from a lot of the simpler, shinier, more heroic stuff which seemed to dominate the genre when I was growing up.
AK – A lot of the criticism of grimdark is from people who believe fiction should be escapist. There seems to be a dislike of complex things happening in their entertainment. Where do you think the idea that a work of fiction can’t be both dark AND provide escapism comes from? And how do you think it can be changed?
JA – I think there are two very different strains of criticism to be fair. One that grimdark fantasy is a debasement of a noble genre that should celebrate heroism and shiny niceness and an evil perversion of the legacy of Robert E Howard. I have, honestly, contempt for that argument. Fantasy has always contained all kinds of work from the utterly dark and shocking to the utterly heroic and predictable, and I think range and variety can never be a bad thing. One cannot have light without shadow, after all, he says pretentiously, and I think it’s hard to have an honest look at heroism without also considering the darkness. But I think there’s a much more compelling argument about whether grim dark simply revels in its own filth and violence without questioning it, and that the particular styles of filth and violence play into sexism and racism in a way that is entirely unhelpful. In essence that grim dark is simply new gritty clothes on the same old conservative horse. That I think is a criticism much more worthy of careful consideration.
“By the early 90s it felt as if a lot of people had been rewriting Lord of the Rings for a long time”
AK – When the battle lines between grimdark and high fantasy are drawn up, Professor Tolkien is understood to be on the other side, across from the forces led by you and George RR Martin. But isn’t Tolkien at least partially misrepresented? Lord of the Rings includes the corrupting and pointless death of Boromir, one the great heroes of the realm, the death of their angel-like guide (Gandalf’s resurrection notwithstanding), the corruption of Saruman (another angel-like being), and the protagonist, Frodo, ultimately failing at his mission. Even the happy wedding in Gondor meant that Arwen had lost her immortality in exchange for a relative few years of happiness. Add in Vance and Leiber and Peake, and the fantasy genre has a much darker heritage than the 1980’s would have led you to believe. All of which is to say that perhaps that the backlash against grimdark is more a product of modern sensibilities than it is a reaction to a tainting of the genre. Your thoughts?
JA – I think any argument that splits the whole vast and varied, weird and wonderful tapestry of fantasy into two opposed camps is fundamentally dumb and doesn’t stand up to the slightest scrutiny. Pioneers of sword and sorcery like Howard, Vance and Leiber were often writing about quite unheroic, gritty, self-serving characters. Trace fantasy further back to, I don’t know, Beowulf and Norse Myth, and you’ll see brutality, antiheroes and withering cynicism being pretty much the historical norm. Tolkien is, for pretty much every fantasy writer, one of their cornerstone influences. I would say so and I’m sure Martin would too. Tolkien did, of course, have plenty of darkness and complexity in his work – indeed I’ve always found Saruman a lot more interesting than Gandalf and Boromir more interesting than Aragorn, precisely because of their flaws and their humanity. I’ve got nothing but love and admiration for Tolkien, I’ve got a fair bit of love for Dragonlance and David Eddings too, if it comes to that, but I think the way in which the whole genre of commercial epic fantasy came to imitate Tolkien’s template, perhaps missing a lot of the subtleties, did lead to a slightly one-noted genre in which things were safe, shiny, predictable. Also, Tolkien, for all his undoubted qualities, wasn’t good at everything. He wasn’t trying to be good at everything. No one is. So he wasn’t much of a humorist. His focus is maybe more on setting than character. His action is not particularly visceral. There weren’t a lot of female characters in his work. These aren’t necessarily criticisms, they’re just observations of where I saw opportunities to take a different, and to my mind complimentary tack, in the same way as Sergio Leone took a different tack to John Ford in making westerns. That doesn’t make Sergio Leone’s westerns a horrific debasement of John Ford’s, it makes them an utterly respectful, natural and necessary development, at least to my mind. By the early 90s it felt as if a lot of people had been rewriting Lord of the Rings for a long time. It felt like it was time to, you know, stop.
AK – What one character from another author’s work would best fit into the world of the First Law trilogy? (Personally, in a genre-mashing showdown, I’d love to see Asimov’s the Mule pitted against Glotka, Bayaz et all.)
JA – I’d be honoured to think that plenty of Martin and Moorcock’s characters would fit quite nicely in amongst mine – Tywin Lannister? Elric? Yes please. But if I had to pick one it would be Jack Vance’s crown prince of utter selfishness, Cugel the Clever, surely one of the most disgustingly compelling people ever put on the page.
AK -Thanks for taking the time to do this, Joe. I have one last question. Neil Gaiman appeared on the Simpsons, and Game of Thrones has also been spoofed. Will Joe Abercrombie ever be big enough for the Simpsons? And if so, given the choice, would you rather write an episode or appear as a guest star?
Writing an episode sounds way too much like hard work. I’ll take a cameo…
In popular genres such as sci-fi and fantasy, fan fiction based on the Wattpad model could easily disrupt the publishing industry.
For a few years in the mid 2000s, I was the young librarian who got sent to schools to convince kids they really did want to read books. The truth of my experience was that the kids needed no convincing. There’s an odd belief in some parts of the book world that young people have to be made to read, or made to read “good” books. If you want a really telling piece of evidence to counter this strange notion, look no further than Wattpad.
With more than 35 million users and over 100,000 stories published each day, Wattpad is staggeringly active community of readers and writers, the vast majority of whom are young adults. When I was working for libraries to engage young people with books, the idea of a website where kids could post and read stories for and by their peer group came up again and again. Wattpad is that vision made real, with the support of nearly $70m (£46m) in venture capital funding.
Confusing sequels, terrible prequels and poor adaptations aside, Frank Herbert’s masterpiece still stands up as the one of the truly great sci-fi novels.
I first discovered Dune through David Lynch’s 1984 film adaptation of Frank Herbert’s SF masterpiece. The “Lynchian” style, that novelist David Foster Wallace would later define as “a particular kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mundane combine”, would spin wildly out of control in the Dune universe, where the very macabre combines with … the even more macabre. Nonetheless, Lynch’s broken but mesmerising space-opera-come-art-film remains the best adaptation in a franchise that has been much abused over its 50 year history.
An excellent guest post today from Jared Hill, a blogger living in Chicago who reads science fiction avidly, and who is also keen on sports and film. Godzilla is among the most iconic film characters of the last century. But the big lizard’s meaning was radically altered by his move from Tokyo to Hollywood. In this post Jared explains how Hollywood deleted that political message. Follow Jared on Twitter @JaredHill341
In 1954, audiences were floored with the phenomenon of Godzilla, a radioactive lizard who destroyed civilian communities in the midst of its enormous feet and ferocious roar. Since the initial introduction, Godzilla has appeared in numerous films, all in the same vein.
When the original Gojira film was produced in 1954 by Toho, Godzilla carried the symbolic weight of the Japanese political climate. As a radioactive lizard “awakened” by a bomb, Godzilla served as an allegory for nuclear warfare and the destruction of civilian communities. The images of full hospitals, communities in flames, and utter destruction forced Japanese moviegoers to relive the trauma from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings.
The film has been remade or received sequels an astounding thirty times, offering alternative projections of Godzilla and even alternative plot lines. Some of these include the edited, English version of Gojira, known as Godzilla, King of the Monsters, 1956, Ebirah, Horror of the Deep (alternatively known as Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster, 1966) and Godzilla vs Mechagodzilla (1974). Each remake brought audiences a new twist on the original city-devastating lizard that we have welcomed so warmly into our hearts, offering a scaley science fiction revolution.
Godzilla, King of the Monsters included some significant cuts to the original, removing aspects of the movie that were less familiar to Western moviegoers such as the anti-nuclear themes as they related to Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Allusions to American testing and the dangers of radioactivity were amongst the cuts. Other alterations of the movie to make it more palatable include integrating an American newscaster into the otherwise Japanese cast, Raymond Burr, who focused on the destruction from the kaiju (monster). These changes erased the intended political purpose from Gojira, instead turning the movie into one solely about a destructive lizard. From there, Godzilla became a character for all ages to enjoy and began making appearances in various programs, including The Simpsons (on at least three different occasions) and Hellsing, where it is incorporated into the soundtrack as well as appears in several scenes. Undeterred by the Western re-culturalization of Godzilla, the original two films still have a sizable international following. Even after sixty years, regular matinees and marathons hosted on niche TV networks carried by cable providers, such as El Rey (which is available via DirecTV or Comcast and is showing the films through January), have helped to keep the fanbase not only alive, but thriving.
A interest and resurgence of monster movies has once again sparked over the past several years. Following the Fukushima disaster in 2011, when triple reactor core meltdowns and exploding containment buildings in Japan forced 15,000 to flee, Google reported a surge of interest in Godzilla and the nuclear allegories attached to it. In response, Pacific Rim, a film about monsters emerging from the sea and fighting man-made robots, was released in 2013. Although Pacific Rim featured characteristics that Western civilizations enjoyed about Godzilla – invasion by monsters from the sea, battles, and human triumph – it lacked the nuclear political echo that made Godzilla desirable. 2014 then brought Godzilla by Warner Brothers, which also lacked the nuclear warfare allegory, caving instead to cookie-cutter characters and an over dependence on visual effects.
Now, due to popular demand, Toho announced last month that they have decided to make one final Godzilla movie, Godzilla: Final Wars, expected to be released in 2016. “The time has come for Japan to make a film that will not lose to Hollywood,” Veteran producer Taichi Ueda for Toho told reporters – and I think most audiences would agree.
A strong practice doesn’t want to stay in the 45 minutes a day you give it around your job in IT. It grows as you grow. And ultimately it will demand your full time and attention. Because that’s what it takes to get to the highest levels of any practice.
You’ll recognise this time because you’ll start to find that you CAN get paid. It’s not that it’s hard to make a living as a writer. It’s that it’s hard to get good enough at writing to earn a living. What sets seems to set successful practitioners so far above others is a kind of virtuous circle. The better you are, the more you can earn, the more you can practice, the better you can get.
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If you want to get to the point where that virtuous circle kicks in, you need to look hard at what professionals in your field actually get paid for. Usually it involves some level of compromise. Even the most soulful singer has to suck it up and keep smiling through the 200th set of the same material. But it’s still practice, even if it’s also the grind of work as well.
Writers are faced with far more options to write than they can possibly fulfil. You can publish little stories in small press ‘zines till the cows come home, and come no closer to getting paid for your practice. At some point in the development of your writing practice, the question “does this pay” become a central one. Don’t be shy of asking it.
“If you can’t stand the thought of ending up nowhere, don’t write.” ~John Barnes
Remember it. Write it down somewhere. On the wall, above where you write. Stencil it around your whole house. Scribble it in magic marker down your arms if you have to. Because it’s true.
I spend a lot of time around two groups of people. Writers and yogis. The art of stretching while breathing might seem to have limited overlap with the art of writing. But in truth, they’re two ways to exactly the same place. Or the same non-place. The same nowhere.
Where do you want to go? The answer for many writers and yogis both is definitely “somewhere”, and that somewhere is usually defined by varying degrees of fame and fortune. For yogis it might be modelling for Lulu Lemon, for writers achieving that holy epithet “New York Times bestselling author”.
They’re both equal measures of bullshit.
You don’t do yoga to get somewhere. You do yoga to help remember that where you are – here, now, in this place, is as good as any place. You stretch and breath for the joy of stretching and breathing. You write words on paper for the joy of writing, of thinking, of shaping concepts, of telling stories. Writing, like yoga, is a practice.
But it’s so easy for us to forget that. We all have ambition, ego, dreams. We need these things, they’ll never go away. And we’re all challenged to balance those essential drives, with the pure pleasure and joy of our practice. The drive to be somewhere, with the recognition that being nowhere is just fine. So remember John Barnes words. (And then go buy his books.)
Creative life is hard. The goal, of becoming a mature creator who can write a great novel, compose a magnificent symphony, paint a powerful image, or any other of the myriad rewards of creative endeavour, is always far away.
(Until the moment it isn’t, which comes often without warning and when you are least expecting it.)
Shortcuts are an immense temptation and come in many forms. They aren’t really shortcuts of course. Like Gawain waylaid on his quest, any temptation that’s not the castle of the Green Knight is, for the aspiring artist, only a delaying tactic. What are we delaying? In most cases, the tough realisation that we aren’t good enough yet and have much hard work ahead of us. At which point, the alluring shortcut beckons us. “Follow me! I can show you the way without all the hard work!’
“Learn from everyone. Share your ideas with anyone who is interested.”
The clique is one of the most alluring and deceptive shortcuts of all. In the writing world, cliques are formed by groups of creators and their supporters – editors, publishers, reviewers and general fans. Creators crave recognition, and the clique offers it. Members of the clique support each other’s work, offering congratulations (and expecting them) when new work is published. A “healthy” clique can give the creators involved the sense that their work is finally being recognised, and rewarded.
The downside is easy to observe. Writers who join a clique get stuck in it, often for the rest of their career. The clique, but its nature, enforces inward looking behaviour. It will have a “house style” that writers will need to match, but the style is rarely if ever engaging to readers who aren’t part of the clique. Working your way into the clique means training your creativity on a very narrow set of criteria, to impress a very small number of people, who are ultimately only ever talking to each other.
In quite literally terms, the creative clique is a shortcut to creative death.
Does this mean you should never co-operate or collaborate with other creators? With other writers? No, quite the opposite. Be open to all other creators (within the reasonable bounds time and resources allow). Learn from everyone. Share your ideas with anyone who is interested. Even cliques themselves have little pearls of wisdom you can carry away, just don’t let the ossified shell of their politics and squabbles trap you.
SF provides a place to focus our awe at the wonders of the universe, just one of many functions it shares with religious beliefs.
Ever since mankind began to count, the uncountable stars have been filling us with awe. But the splendour revealed by a cloudless night reveals only a fraction of the universe’s truly awe-inspiring scale. The Hubble space telescope reveals a tiny smudge in the sky such as Andromeda to be a galaxy vaster than our own, teeming with a trillion stars, one of a hundred million other galaxies spread across the heavens.
Science today shows us a very different universe than the clockwork model imagined by Isaac Newton in his description of gravity. Jules Verne could imagine shooting a rocket from the Earth to the moon in 1865, but could not have imagined the vastness even of our solar system’s Kuiper belt. It was only when Edwin Hubble identified the first star beyond the Milky Way, and only when the telescope that bore his name photographed 3,000 galaxies in a single patch of “empty” space, that the human eye could glimpse the near infinite depths of space.
Let’s agree that creativity is a universal human potential. Maybe there are some poor souls who are born without that potential (I’m yet to meet a single one) but they aren’t our concern here. Let’s speculate that creativity is the highest human potential (I believe this absolutely) and that expressing our creativity – whether as an artist, a scientist, an athlete, or any other field of human excellence, is what we are all basically on planet Earth to do. Let’s say it together – creation is what humans were created for.
Let’s just take this all as a given.
Now, how pissed off are people who don’t get to create?
I’ve been a factory worker. If you haven’t worked on a factory line, I’m happy to assure you, it really does suck. If you have, you’ll know that it sucks not for the obvious reasons of monotony and physical labour. Those things are doable in better circumstances. Factory work sucks because you’re trapped as a tiny little cog in a machine made of humans (and machines) and you have absolutely no space to breathe the air of your own creative potential.
Being caught in factory labour is one kind of creative block. A very literal, visceral and harsh one. Others aren’t quite so clear. Counter intuitively, having too much money is a pretty substantial creative block as well. Some of the most dejected, miserable souls I know are trust fund kids, whose wealth places them outside all the pressures of life and leaves them kicking in a void, forever reaching for self-actualisation without the basic fuel that takes us to that goal – life itself.
Too much knowledge is another common creative block. There’s a vast gulf between knowing how something is done and actually doing it. Teachers can become terribly blocked, weighed down with knowledge but without the hours of practice to balance it. But if you really want to get to the route of all creative blocks I can give it to you in one word.
Creativity of any kind is killed dead by fear. That doesn’t mean creators are fearless. Quite the opposite. Every successful creator, from a stage actor battling to stage fright, to a business entrepreneur facing the terrifying possibilities of bankruptcy and failure, all creators are in a relationship with fear. Creative success means a constant negotiation or outright battle with all the ways fear manifests. When fear wins that battle, creativity ends, and the creator becomes blocked.
“Not everyone is going to applaud when your book is published, because many people wish it was their book being published.”
In our world as it is, fear kills most people’s creativity dead before they even start. Just the thought of picking up a brush or a pen, of singing a song or dancing a dance, raises so much fear in many folks that they never even get going. Do you remember the exhilaration the first few times you did create? That’s in part just plain relief from fear. It rarely lasts. Fear comes back in new ways. “You’re not as good as so and so” or “you’ll never make a living at this” whispers a voice. And there it is again, fear.
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that, for many varied and complex reasons, the world is absolutely stuffed full of blocked creatives. And the answer to the above question is, they are very pissed off. Whether they know it or admit it or not. And when I say They, I mean You and I as well. We all struggle to fulfil our creative potential, and we all get frustrated, angry, jealous, and sometimes plain destructive as part of those struggles.
So beware the blocked creative in all of us. Not everyone is going to applaud when your book is published, because many people wish it was their book being published. Don’t expect the whole world to hail your business success, because many people will ask, what about all the folks who work for you, are they millionaires as well? In fact the more you succeed creatively the more you’ll encounter barefaced hatred and hostility from other people. Try not to hate your haters back. Remember, they’re all humans with the same creative potential as you and facing (or ignoring) their own challenges.
But most of all, beware the blocked creative in yourself. When your friend has had a great day writing, try not to say any of the snide undermining things that writers say to each other. That epic rant you were going to make on Twitter about how much you hate that guy whose doing that creative thing that is basically exactly what you would be doing if you weren’t making epic rants on Twitter? Maaaaybe keep that inside. It’s just the blocked creator in you, trying to have its say.
Three tips for keeping the blocked creator at bay.
1) Treat everyone like a fellow creator. Because they are.
2) Dedicate time and effort to helping other creators. Not so people will like you, but so you will like you.
3) We’re all standing on the shoulders of giants. Help people climb up, don’t knock them down.