Time Waits For No Muse, or Momento Mori
As I may have mentioned elsewhere, when I'm sick I crave horror movies and horror books. No idea why. So I spent the last couple of days rereading Ira Levin's Rosemary's Baby (1967) and then the long-awaited sequel I totally missed in 1999, Son of Rosemary. The original book is brilliant, foundational, a delight to rediscover after so many years. I was so happy it held up well when so many beloved books don't. But the sequel? It was awful, in so many bad writing ways. Oh, there was enough to keep me turning the pages, wanting to see if he was really going where I thought he was going, but even the "twist" at the end was hackneyed, infuriating, really, that I couldn't get those precious hours of my life back.
But I'm not here to badmouth Ira Levin. The man did amazing, great work, better than I will ever turn out. No, this isn't a book review or a rant.
No, this is a thoughtful moment for me as a writer. This reading experience brought home to me- by no means for the first time- that writers do write themselves out, run out of good ideas, but sometimes keep going anyway. I'm not going to name names. I'm sure you can all think of an example or two. Some stop before it happens, either tired and out of ideas and they know it, or maybe their agents don't return their calls anymore? I don't know. Or they die.
I know some readers thought this might be the case with Shadows Return. The initial reception for the book was crushing, and really shook my confidence, although it, and its sequel, have found a following since and are still selling. That said, I stand by those books. Right or wrong, they are exactly the books I set out to write. Maybe Ira felt the same way about Son of Rosemary. Or maybe he just wanted one more grab at the shiny brass ring. I can certainly empathize with that.
The response to Casket of Souls has been a huge relief, really. I love that book, feel great about it, rejoice that people tell me how much they like it, even when qualified with comparison to those other books. At least I'm not written out, at least not yet. Or maybe I am. Maybe that was the last bright squib of my roman candle. I almost wish Casket was my last book, so I could go out feeling like a winner.
But I'm not ready to quit. The itch is still there, strong as ever. And there is one more Nightrunner book, one more chance to succeed or fail. For those of you who want to become a writer, please take heed. Succeeding with one book is no guarantee that you will succeed with another. Every single one of the damn things is a crap shoot. Even some Big Names I Won't Mention write some real stinkers. I can't think of any writer who hit every single one over the fence. You want to. Holy hell, do you want to! We're only human.
I generally can't help reading with a writer's eye, and reading Son of Rosemary was no exception. There were so many moments when I winced for the writer, thinking "Can't you see that doesn't work? Can't you tell anymore?" But he must not have. How else to explain him allowing it to see the light of day? Or maybe he did and had his reasons. Either way, my heart aches for a fellow scribbler.
In the Tarot, the Wheel is always turning for good or ill, turning turning turning. From a Buddhist standpoint, all things change, all things fall away, or at least change to something else. When the great teachers couch that in examples like seeds changing into plants or babies growing up, that's lovely and life affirming and only half the picture and completely not the point. They also have meditations in which you picture your loved ones dead and decaying from meat to rot to bone to dust to whatever comes after dust. It's not even two sides of the same coin. There is no coin, only process. Part of my practice is accepting that illness, aging, and death are inevitable and not to be feared because fear comes from clinging and attachment to the idea that it could be otherwise if only . . . if only. Believe me, that's a work in progress. And the same goes for creativity. One way or another, it's finite. The question rears its ugly, scaly, fraught-with-attachment head: will I know the difference when the time comes? Because I'm not ready to quit yet.
I guess I hear the deathwatch beetle clicking away today, and my Muse turns uneasily to look. Momento mori indeed.
But I'm not here to badmouth Ira Levin. The man did amazing, great work, better than I will ever turn out. No, this isn't a book review or a rant.
No, this is a thoughtful moment for me as a writer. This reading experience brought home to me- by no means for the first time- that writers do write themselves out, run out of good ideas, but sometimes keep going anyway. I'm not going to name names. I'm sure you can all think of an example or two. Some stop before it happens, either tired and out of ideas and they know it, or maybe their agents don't return their calls anymore? I don't know. Or they die.
I know some readers thought this might be the case with Shadows Return. The initial reception for the book was crushing, and really shook my confidence, although it, and its sequel, have found a following since and are still selling. That said, I stand by those books. Right or wrong, they are exactly the books I set out to write. Maybe Ira felt the same way about Son of Rosemary. Or maybe he just wanted one more grab at the shiny brass ring. I can certainly empathize with that.
The response to Casket of Souls has been a huge relief, really. I love that book, feel great about it, rejoice that people tell me how much they like it, even when qualified with comparison to those other books. At least I'm not written out, at least not yet. Or maybe I am. Maybe that was the last bright squib of my roman candle. I almost wish Casket was my last book, so I could go out feeling like a winner.
But I'm not ready to quit. The itch is still there, strong as ever. And there is one more Nightrunner book, one more chance to succeed or fail. For those of you who want to become a writer, please take heed. Succeeding with one book is no guarantee that you will succeed with another. Every single one of the damn things is a crap shoot. Even some Big Names I Won't Mention write some real stinkers. I can't think of any writer who hit every single one over the fence. You want to. Holy hell, do you want to! We're only human.
I generally can't help reading with a writer's eye, and reading Son of Rosemary was no exception. There were so many moments when I winced for the writer, thinking "Can't you see that doesn't work? Can't you tell anymore?" But he must not have. How else to explain him allowing it to see the light of day? Or maybe he did and had his reasons. Either way, my heart aches for a fellow scribbler.
In the Tarot, the Wheel is always turning for good or ill, turning turning turning. From a Buddhist standpoint, all things change, all things fall away, or at least change to something else. When the great teachers couch that in examples like seeds changing into plants or babies growing up, that's lovely and life affirming and only half the picture and completely not the point. They also have meditations in which you picture your loved ones dead and decaying from meat to rot to bone to dust to whatever comes after dust. It's not even two sides of the same coin. There is no coin, only process. Part of my practice is accepting that illness, aging, and death are inevitable and not to be feared because fear comes from clinging and attachment to the idea that it could be otherwise if only . . . if only. Believe me, that's a work in progress. And the same goes for creativity. One way or another, it's finite. The question rears its ugly, scaly, fraught-with-attachment head: will I know the difference when the time comes? Because I'm not ready to quit yet.
I guess I hear the deathwatch beetle clicking away today, and my Muse turns uneasily to look. Momento mori indeed.