Samuél Lopez-Barrantes's Blog, page 4

Substack: Still for Writers

photo by Augusta Sagnelli

first and foremost, happy birthday to my twin brother . It’s been a beautiful ride so far. Let’s keep dancing.

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A few months ago, I began a correspondence with a fellow author who sent me a Substack message to the effect of I haven’t read anything you’ve written, but I think we’re kindred spirits.

David wasn’t wrong. We’re both indie authors interested in alternative publishing models and David was particularly interested in the idea of authors buying back the rights to their debuts (three years ago, I bought back my rights to Slim and The Beast, a coming-of-age fiction set in North Carolina; my wife, , and I are preparing a 10th anniversary edition via our own imprint, Kingdom Anywhere).1

David’s latest book, The Femme Fatale Hypothesis, received multiple rave reviews and awards, but what struck me most about David’s message was his genuine interest in engaging in a literary conversation (although David has a Substack, , he currently uses it exclusively to read and connect with fellow writers).

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We live in an era in which writers are told to strive to WIN! by getting agents and publishers and publishing deals, oh my, and then Netflix specials and awards and you’re the best ever, you’re winning! Now write another one of those big successful novels that is adaptable to the screen.

Even here on Substack, which has genuinely changed my writing life, the influencers are starting to influence and the most successful writers prose-oil salespeople are peddling tips and tricks to convince the masses they’re only a few steps away from a major publishing deal so long as they LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE NOW!!1!! (this is neither hyperbolic nor the only reality on Substack … this place really is what you make of it).

Still, it’s worth asking why across most creative industries, the most successful commodified success stories teach us to preach to disembodied digitized followings as if the point of it all were to become personally branded cult leaders, paving our future with gold or perhaps just maybe, the American presidency because why stop at the Nobel Prize? Hell, this is America!

Wait a tick.

Alas, hypocritical times make hypocrites out of all of us.

My conversations with David have given me pause to consider how each of us participates in various forms of mindless cultural consumption—more subscribers, more likes, more comments, more everything!—rarely considering how fundamentally related this behavior is to the identitarian authoritarian reality of the 2020s.

By remaining in our selected bubbles and poking holes in all the others, David reminded me how the powers that be convince us to maintain a certain distance from taking a hard look in the mirror, redirecting our outrage towards the megalomaniacal spiteful billionaires of the world instead of thinking how we a) purchase participate daily in systems that democratically elect rich assholes b) continue to basque in the grotesque human consequences of an exceptionally American United Statesian version of life as a zero-sum pursuit of happiness power.

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But I digress. Like most novelists trying to build a life that affords me the time and stability to write (I always think of a painter living on the street with a sign: will paint for paint), part of the absurd befuddling reality of pursuing authenticity in this era of mass-produced consumption egotism is that hypocrisy is a fundamental aspect of contemporary creative life.2

What I do not accept, however—and this is where David and I agree that Substack at least provides the opportunity for authenticity vulnerability—is some artists’ feigned sacrosanct unwillingness to participate in a system they end up devoting an inordinate amount of psychic and creative time to criticizing just the same (capitalism isn’t going anywhere, folks, and wouldn’t it be nice if a few more writers became billionaires financially independent?)

The world needs more honest writers, not disgruntled hermits,

and so in that spirit, below are my impromptu answers to seven questions David sent me the other day (I hope some of you will consider answering some of these questions in the comments section, or via email, or perhaps via your own Substack post).

Twin Steps, photo by Augusta Sagnelli7 Questions

1) Is merely being enough, or must a life have a reason/intention beyond merely being?

Being is surely enough insofar as it's only when we start to think about needing a reason/intention that being becomes complicated. To the Alan Watts' point of it all, dancing might be enough because the music is playing and the music is life.

2) If simply being is enough, is it possible to reconcile purposelessness with the idea of accepted moral behavior?

I think so. Purposelessness arises when we think about the absence of purpose … when we’re in a flow state (dancing, making love, writing a novel, for example), life is too exciting to be concerned with the idea of purpose, or lack thereof.

Like atheists hell bent on proving the non-existence of God, the cynic nihilist is confined to assigning potential purposelessness to everything, which means they’re just as tethered to the meaning of existence as everyone else.

Those who don't overthink about the essence of life are simply dancing, and those are the types of people who make me feel most alive. Purpose is fleeting, there's no such thing as a universal meaning to life, but deciding to make the bed in the morning and go do something creative with your day is as profound philosophical choice as any.

3) Do we choose our own purpose, or is our purpose simply the sum of our reactions to our circumstances?

I'm going to play the truism card and say purpose chooses us, and when we're attuned to the cosmos / God / muses / however one defines it, choosing to dance or play a melody is no more of a thought than Michael Jordan chooses to spin to the right when a 7 foot center is coming at him so that he can become a ballet dancer in the air. In short: purpose is the sum of something I have yet to define.

4) Does purpose require a desired outcome? If not, then how do you know you have lived with purpose? If so, how do you determine that the goal is worthy of your purpose?

“What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for a worthwhile goal, a freely chosen task. What he needs is not the discharge of tension at any cost but the call of a potential meaning waiting to be fulfilled by him.” Viktor Frankl

I do believe, to Viktor Frankl's assertion up above, that purpose is often related to a "worthwhile goal." Whether that's simply getting out of bed, or finishing a novel, or raising a child, like any good journey, there are pitfalls unimagined outcomes along the way. It reminds me of that famous T.S. Eliot quote about coming back to where we started and knowing ourselves for the first time. The goal is worthy of my purpose to the extent that it inspires me to live, to act, to be an active participant in the goings on of the universe … when I retreat from the world, I become resentful, lethargic and apathetic, which are all clear signs of the looming doldrums of purposelessness.

5) Can our purpose be dictated by another; i.e., can being compelled to act constitute a purpose?

Yes. It's why fascism is so attractive, at least initially. I suspect most people prefer to be told which purpose to pursue because it makes it far easier to deflect personal responsibility when the chickens come home to roost. There’s a book by the late journalist Chris Hedges called War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning, and what is more compelling than being told to destroy the bad guys? On the other side of the human condition is the joy of being compelled to create—from lovers to brothers to muses to artists, when we’re open and attuned to a creative purpose waiting to be fulfilled, there are few things more compelling than sitting down at the proverbial desk.

6) If our purpose (our Why) is to serve (others/a leader/a god), must we relinquish our choice of How we live?

No. I don't believe our purpose is to serve. The sentiment feels too religious to me, and I find it to be a relic of an orthodox puritanical approach to life that is afraid of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll.

But that’s just like, uh, my opinion, man, which is why I'm hell bent on forever (and sometimes stubbornly) choosing exactly how I want to live. If I serve something, it's the Muses, which aren't deities in my mind, but that space inside the self that glows like a lightbulb when we know we're on the right track creatively speaking … like surfing a beautiful wave in Portugal or dancing to a James Brown tune or playing harmonica with my eyes closed because I'm now connected to The Beyond.

In the words of my favorite Milan Kundera novel, Life is Elsewhere.

7) What is the relationship between one's understanding of the meaning of Life and one's individual purpose?

The meaning of life as a universal idea is a myth created by folks who like to be controlled or to control others lest they face themselves. Individual purpose is the individual's assertion of their existence, which confirms that the meaning of life can never be universal but must be defined in a subjective, personal way.

This individual purpose can change from day to day, month to month, decade to decade, but I don't believe there is a singular meaning of life and I abide by Viktor Frankl's philosophy that we are not in a position to ask (let alone define) the meaning of life, but rather to consider what life asks of us.

To this end, it is our responsibility to be open to existence and respond. The meaning of life, in my opinion, is to figure out what the meaning of life is for oneself. If that’s tautological, maybe life is, too. It is the individual human being’s duty to consider the question what is the meaning of life? on a daily basis and to attempt to respond earnestly, authentically and subjectively without infringing on others’ to do the same.

Or, to co-opt John F. Kennedy Jr’s famous quote, ask not what life can do for you, but what you can do for life.

Thanks for these questions, David, and for the continued conversation.

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I was chatting with my poet friend the other night and felt particularly sheepish to admit that while I don’t order books from Amazon because bookstores > billionaires, as an independent author I can’t afford NOT to sell my book on Amazon because it turns out most people still prefer facility and comfort (including me) to refusing to support the very billionaires they blame for the ills of the world. Oh the hypocrisy!

Surrealism at The Pompidou

this is not Magritte’s “L’Empire des lumières”

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I had a surrealist phase. I suspect many writers do.

As someone who grew up in the nineties twilight of postmodernism (here’s looking at you, Seinfeld/Dave Chappelle/David Foster Wallace), for a time I was convinced that the more absurd and phallic cerebral my work became, the more I could approximate the su…

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January 20, 1942

A Villa with a View, Am Großen Wannsee 56-58, West Berlin

For those curious about last week’s free lecture/discussion, here’s the full (and free) recording about fascism, historical narrative, and my latest novel, The Requisitions.1

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Consider the Log

A humble request: if you enjoy the audio recordings of my writing (background piano incl.), would you be so kind as to click on the little red heart/tell me via a comment on Substack? It’s silly, I know, but knowing how many of you are listening helps me gauge if spending time recording is worthwhile.

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Authoritarianism Happens

“Goebbels” by Erró, 1967-1968

Despots and bigots and chauvinists, oh my.

Weighty subjects, I know, but they only remain heavy so long as we’re unwilling to unpack them.

With the exception of a popular piece I wrote during last year’s Great Substack Nazi Debate (“I, Too, Have a Nazi Problem”), I refrain from opining about this comically political ideologic…

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"White Lines"

The song “White Lines” (2015) by Slim & the Beast doesn’t exist on any streaming platforms, which means in at least one way I can call this a Substack Exclusive (full lyrics + a Sofar Sounds video (2018) down below). Shout out to my twinbo for the killer slide guitar and Aurelien Amzallag for an insane guitar solo.

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I was having drinks with and a few Texan friends the other night in as close to a legitimate speakeasy one can find in 2024. The bar specializes in whiskeys from all over the world and is only accessible via the utility closet of one of the best Neapolitan pizzerias in the city. But like the restaurant’s name, and like most of the best places in Paris, the details would belie the true value of a speakeasy in the first place.1

Over an elegant glass of Irish whiskey (Green Spot, I recommend it) my friends and I were chatting about our past experiences with psychedelics, when (let’s call her Sally) mentioned the first time she ever tried mushrooms. At a high school party Sally was offered what she thought was an imperceptible dose of mushroom chocolates, only to find the road suddenly split in two during her drive home.

Sally had never taken mushrooms before and, being a teenager, had no idea that mushrooms, specifically, can take an hour or two to take effect (especially after a big meal). Terrified as she was, she distinctly remembered not losing her shit on the highway but rather focusing on staying in the right lane, trusting that yes, the right lane was real, thus focusing on the reality of the white line on the shoulder that led her safely back home.

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“One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.” André Gide, French Nobel Prize Winner

Sally’s story brought back to me, “White Lines,” a blues/road song that I wrote almost a decade ago with my former band, Slim and The Beast. We’re all adults here and this is the Internet, which means while I hope you, dear reader, understand that I’m not condoning operating speeding masses of metal under the influence of psychedelics, I’ll say it anyway—don’t drive on psychedelics—but the point here isn’t about how we all do dumb things as teenagers humans, but rather how in doing dumb things we often learn important lessons, i.e. to remember trusting the white line the journey during moments of reckless abandon personal growth.

Such is the unspoken sentiment in “White Lines,” one of the first songs I ever wrote at the ripe age of twenty-six, during a time when I began experimenting with various substances … and while I’m not explicitly condoning the use of drugs for the general public because the pharmaceutical industry does a fine job all by itself, I do advocate for psychic, spiritual, and literal adventures because [see Andre Gide quote up above]

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“White Lines” is a song story about a person picking up speed on a highway with aspirations for a horizon they have yet to define. Slim and The Beast, with whom I recently started playing music again, got a taste of the rockstar lifestyle before our March 2020 European Tour “career” was rudely interrupted by a global pandemic (as I often tell my walking tour clients, we reached the proverbial zenith at Paris’ Zenith Arena, playing to a room of 5,000 people the day before France shut down and the world changed irrevocably):

our moment of glory on the professional musician highway. Zenith Arena, Paris, March 2020

With a decade of life and love and sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll in the rearview mirror, Sally’s story reminded me of “White Lines” and my continued belief that when life gets hairy and when the road splits in two,

there’s reckless wisdom in staying the course, even especially when traveling towards an unknown destination.

TLDR: DON’T trip and drive but DO seek out new adventures.

Happy New Years and to the journey in its myriad forms,

Samuél

“White Lines” (2015) by Slim and The Beast

Leave home in the mirror, landscape fading fast
Keep your eyes on that white line, somebody said, don’t look back
Picking up speed now, I’m finding my way
Won’t stop till I’m empty, I’ll carry that weight
No sign of trouble, no change of plans
And if I don’t make it, they’ll understand

‘Cause I knew where I was going when I left town
and I’ve come too far to turn this whole thing around

Pull off the road now, the sharp edge of town
Looking for signposts, and that’s where I find
A warm kind of feeling that flows through my hands
Get down on my knees with a fistful of sand
Off in the distance a shadow appears
A face that I dreamt of, a face that I feared
Rise from the wasteland, I look in his eyes
Some kind of shelter, I finally realize that

I knew where I was going when I left town,
and I’ve come too far to turn this whole thing around

Stick to the white lines, nothing but white lines, stick to the white lines
I tipped my hat, can you help me sir, I’m trying to find my way
The clouds turned dark and the lightning struck, he said son don’t dig your grave
I’ve seen that devil in the passenger’s side of so many men like you
Drive too fast, it’ll turn you blind, do you know where you’re going?
Do you know where you’re going? Do you know where you’re going to?

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The same is true for writing a book: the more you talk about writing it, the less potential it has to exist.