Here’s the latest dirge for the noble book and it’s toiling author in an article from the Guardian. Author Ewan Morrison laments the passing of the book. Well, it’s a little more callus and self-serving than that. He’s not morning the loss of the texture and smell of those paper books we all love, of the way a great story can wrap us in its narrative and distract us for hours or haunt us for years. Instead, Morrison has a more important question:
But let’s leave the survival of the paper book alone, and ask the more important question: Will writers be able to make a living and continue writing in the digital era?
Ah…here we are. The crux of the issue for Mr. Morrison and all writers of his ilk who share this lament. Nevermind the actual books…let’s instead worry about how writers (like, perhaps, Mr. Morrison himself) will be able to cash in in this era of the free and ubiquitous. Or, to put it bluntly,why the fuck would I read Mr. Morrison’s work when I can download–say–Mark Twain for free? Great question.
Mr. Morrison goes on in that infuriating article to mourn “The Retreat of Advances” and other such hardships that novelists are having to endure these days. Ah, the fat advance. Morrison insists that a huge advance is actually the key to great literature (and to think I’d always thought it was those muses):
To ask whether International Man Booker prizewinner Philip Roth could have written 24 novels and the award-winning American trilogy without advances is like asking if Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel without the patronage of Pope Julius II. The economic framework that supports artists is as important as the art itself; if you remove one from the other then things fall apart.
I like Philip Roth as much as the next guy, but he’s been retreading the rather narrow, angst-ridden, semi-autobiographical streets of Newark, NJ in his Nathan Zuckerman novels for years. Have these advances really inspired Roth to greatness? Or have they just prolonged his navel-gazing? To compare Roth to Michelangelo is…well…kind of a stretch. And then to insist that the main reason that such fine Rothian literature gets produced is due to the corporate publishing model–with it’s Victorian roots and gaggles of agents, editors and mid-level marketing execs cashing in at every stop in the process between author and reader–is beyond silly.
I’m tired of hearing the dire refrain. I’m actually inspired by the new possibilities in storytelling. But for folks like Morrison, it all boils down to this: “If I don’t get paid to write my semi-autobiographical bourgeois ’literature,’ and if…God forbid…I have to get a real job, the world as we know it will begin to crumble!” Writers, literary writers especially, think they deserve to receive checks in the mail for what they do. Which is horseshit.
I’m not saying that just because I’m a working stiff writer with very modest publishing credentials. The main reason I find Morrison’s sentiment pathetic is due to my recent foray into independent filmmaking. If anything, it’s a more demanding pursuit in terms of persistence, blood, sweat and treasure than writing. And I’ve met folks who have mortgaged their houses, sacrificed marriages, given up careers and moved in with their mothers at the age of forty…all for the sake of creating their art. And I’m not talking about pulphouse B-movies…those genre films actually have a chance at making a little money. I’m talking about very excellent, thoughtful, well-crafted and intelligent independent features and documentaries.
There’s very little money in filmmaking. The old saw is, “If you want to make a small fortune in the film business, start with a large one.” I see people with leaky roofs and trashy cars maxing out their credit cards to buy camera gear or to pay for catering to feed volunteer actors. I’ve borrowed money from friends and family. I’ve begged for cash. It makes me sick to slip around with my hand out, expecting folks who don’t have much money to begin with to kick in for my project so I can play around with a camera. But in film, if you want to finish a project, that’s what you have to do. Plenty of months go by when I invest in a film before I make that deposit into my kid’s college fund. I’ve managed to (mostly) avoid the credit card debt with plagues so many indie film folks. But I’ve kicked quite a few chips into the kitty over the years. Writers actually have it easy: their art costs them nothing to make. Zero! Zilch!
Writers actually have it easy: their art costs them nothing to make. Zero! Zilch!
Sure, there are film folks in LA getting rich. Many of them even make fantastic movies. But if there is a genre in film that compares with great literature of the ages, it’s that independent genre that is fueled by espresso, tips from waiting tables and maxed out credit cards. Folks give blood to make moves. Robert Rodriguez famously sold his body to science to finance his first film.
So after hearing a jackass like Morrison whine about how all those who love books are duty bound to defend the old publishing model, I’m ready to relinquish the title of “writer.” I’ll still write scripts. Maybe even another novel or two. I’ll most likely end up giving them all away, or in the case of a narrative film, end up investing my retirement fund in making it happen. And instead persisting to carry the whining title of “writer,” I’ll pick up the title of “filmmaker” where I’ll be among blue collar folks who are willing to roll up their sleeves and make sacrifices for their art, to beg money off of family or to work a real job to make ends meet, putting together projects nights, weekends or during two week vacations from work.
And if writers like Morrison and Roth truly require corporate patronage to be inspired to create great work, and if the absence of the fat advance renders them literarily impotent, then I just have to say “good riddance.” Go sulk. Quit writing. Somebody else will be willing to step up and write something solid. Or I can always go back to Mark Twain.
Just a word of caution, though. If you quit writing, or if those advance checks stop rolling in, you may find you have to go out and get a real job. And if you can write HTML code or solid advertising copy, and if you’re willing to bust your ass while you’re on the clock, then you’re even welcome to come apply where I work. And, if you want, you can come out to a shoot some weekend and help by holding a boom mic. I might even feed you if you do.
