Writing as an aggressive act

Recently I've been struck by the idea of writing as an act of aggression. It might be easy to forget that art always has revolutionary potential. Sometimes, that can look downright weird--you get fat millionaires in their fifties pretending on stage they are wild hot young penniless things. I knew a writer once whose narrator in all his books was always a bit of a loser, while the author himself was successfully running a business. Establishment, anti-establishment. All these are roles we're planning.

It's hard to listen to Muse's Uprising without hearing the snarl underneath it. Hell, Rage Against the Machine is all snarl. At the same time, both are mega-acts. I wouldn't judge their authenticity. In some ways, it doesn't matter what the convictions of the artist are. It's all in the music/art--it all brings its force to bear in my mind as the listener/reader. If I do nothing about it, the most rebel-rousing song is nothing more than something giving me a small kick to get through my day as a corporate drone. A vent rather than the spark that lights the streets up, exploding in a riot.

It doesn't have to be "the establishment" (and who's that anyway?). And I'm not deluded enough to think, like David Hasselhoff, that music brought down the Berlin Wall. (Though, his singing would make me want to throw away my rifle and run like hell.)

Nevertheless, I've written books that were my way of punching somebody in the gut (though "hypothetical literary assault" is thankfully not a crime). Thankfully, it's more constructive. It entertains others. It provided a vent for me, allowing me to bear the tensions raging through my own soul. The alternative to writing Incursion would have been to scream, incoherent with rage--or that said punch in the gut. It's very much directed at one person, in all the world. Just one.

Like a boxer, I sublimated my violent urge into discipline. Also, I entertained others. The act itself is, nevertheless, raw aggression, just expressed differently. It allowed me to drag up the rage and clear it out. Examine it. Feel its sting like sweat in an open cut. Revel in my own power as a decently-trained craftsperson. Get a kick out of it. Not go to jail for it. Not be seen as an asshole who escalates a bad situation towards unforgiveable. Be the better man. Art is a higher good. If it's not "art", it can always be "just" entertainment (though entertaining anybody at least takes skill).

When I re-read Incursion, I can still hear the scream of rage. I know for a fact that it has made some people think--people who happened to be in the audience. That I've made a very strong point there that's not going unnoticed (I love you guys for being so godsdamned smart!). In the end, it doesn't matter whether the one I'm screaming at knows about this, and it doesn't make this story any less valid.

By turning a scream into words, I've made sure that it never stops. It's echoing forever. It might go on when both the author and the one it's written for (or really: against) are no longer around. I firmly believe that stories find their readers, and readers find their stories. The moment I set it out into the world, it's no longer about me or my anger or other emotions--but what happens in the mind that's perceiving it (and, if nothing happens, that's fine--you can listen to Uprising just to have a good time). But some stories are like underwater mines. Deceptively inert, lasting for a long time, patiently waiting. If the right mind touches them, they became active and explode and unleash their force. I'm happy to be laying mines every now and then and leave the rest to chance. It usually works out. My job is to plant the mines as skillfully as I can and cover my tracks and stay out of the way, because this is not about me.

But not for a moment can I forget that I put this there out of almighty fucking rage--which I tamed and purified and wrestled to serve me rather than the other way round. And when I see the explosions shaking the water surface, I smile.