THE SWAMP STOMP / Part Four
or “Mud, Blood & Beyond”
Interviewers are forever asking me what makes a work literary – frequently in the most confrontational tones – as though defying me to quote some rule. I usually say zombies and gore, lots of gore. Plus gouged eyeballs just scream artistic style.
(Cue the illiterati to denounce me as pretentious. Pitchforks and torches ready… and three… two… one…)
But maybe we could take another stab at a definition?
Obviously, talent is an essential (and nebulous) criteria, but intellect is also necessary, as well as passion, even courage. All writers will understand what I’m talking about here, but many authors won’t have a clue … and are already seething.) Other components? Technical proficiency, of course. Integrity. Vision and execution. Discipline and a touch of madness. All of it. And so much else. The term “literary” describes a level of prose that aspires to do more than just appeal to the lowest common denominator, and that single aspect remains the key – what I can only call seriousness of intent. A few years ago, I had the disagreeable experience of witnessing a popular author address a horde of his admirers. “What’s scary to you? Is it vampires? Is it werewolves? Then that’s what you should write,” he told them. “But that’s not the important part. No. SELLING yourself is the important part. Look at me. I don’t have much talent, but I’m really good at self-promotion.” He was completely unabashed by this pronouncement. If anything, he seemed proud of it, as though success without talent somehow enhanced the accomplishment. I looked around: the room was full of aspiring authors, all scribbling notes.
Now, that’s scary.
My own journey was never about marketing. (General rule: Any author who talks about his “brand” should have one on his forehead. Maybe a nice dollar sign.) As a kid, I don’t know what I would have done if not for the public library. Killed myself probably. I’ll never be certain why I didn’t wind up a teen statistic, but I suspect it had something to do with being able to lose myself in a book. And find myself. Learning to write was about becoming. Do composers feel that way? Or painters? Does the craft become a chrysalis? Michelangelo said he didn’t create his statues so much as free them from the stone. I suspect he freed himself as well.
So much rock to chip away. One makes slow progress.
Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/Robert-Dunbar/e...
No, my journey wasn’t about self-promotion, but even an artist needs to eat. In the years between books, I wrote poetry that appeared in several journals, and a number of my plays were produced in a variety of strange venues (few of which resembled actual theaters). So clearly I didn't eat much. But I also worked for a bewildering array of newspapers and magazines and finally – for my sins – wound up writing for television, mostly PBS and Discovery, that sort of thing.
But these days I concentrate on my fiction.
Not the smoothest of paths to follow.
No, it can be rough, and it’s so easy to get frustrated. Over the years, one critic would rave that The Pines was a “masterpiece of the genre” or another proclaim that The Shore was “surprisingly good for a horror novel,” and I’d be pleased for a split second, then plunge into despair. With Martyrs and Monsters – for the first time – reviewers began to avoid the patronizing restrictions when discussing my work and just talked about quality, and that made all the difference. Without this level of support, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to attempt a novel as complex as Willy. I’m very grateful.
With both of those books, I went back to the pine barrens. Readers are familiar with the setting now, but when I wrote THE PINES, the lore of the Leeds Devil was almost unknown outside of New Jersey. It was a rich vein to mine, because the legend boasts so many classic components: the hut in the swamp; the cursed thirteenth child. By exploring the atmosphere around the myth, rather than the myth itself, I tried to fashion the folklore into something meaningful and contemporary, as well as something intensely personal. There’s a Carl Jung quote about “owning your shadow.” Such a delicious phrase and so reassuring … as though by knowing the darkness we gain some measure of control over it. How could a writer – or any artist – resist this sort of intensity?
YA. NA. MM. The market is so obsessed with labels. You want to know what else interviewers are always asking me? Still in such confrontational tones? They always want to know why I don’t just write literary fiction instead of horror.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I am writing literary fiction.
Just don’t tell anyone.
Interviewers are forever asking me what makes a work literary – frequently in the most confrontational tones – as though defying me to quote some rule. I usually say zombies and gore, lots of gore. Plus gouged eyeballs just scream artistic style.
(Cue the illiterati to denounce me as pretentious. Pitchforks and torches ready… and three… two… one…)
But maybe we could take another stab at a definition?
Obviously, talent is an essential (and nebulous) criteria, but intellect is also necessary, as well as passion, even courage. All writers will understand what I’m talking about here, but many authors won’t have a clue … and are already seething.) Other components? Technical proficiency, of course. Integrity. Vision and execution. Discipline and a touch of madness. All of it. And so much else. The term “literary” describes a level of prose that aspires to do more than just appeal to the lowest common denominator, and that single aspect remains the key – what I can only call seriousness of intent. A few years ago, I had the disagreeable experience of witnessing a popular author address a horde of his admirers. “What’s scary to you? Is it vampires? Is it werewolves? Then that’s what you should write,” he told them. “But that’s not the important part. No. SELLING yourself is the important part. Look at me. I don’t have much talent, but I’m really good at self-promotion.” He was completely unabashed by this pronouncement. If anything, he seemed proud of it, as though success without talent somehow enhanced the accomplishment. I looked around: the room was full of aspiring authors, all scribbling notes.
Now, that’s scary.
My own journey was never about marketing. (General rule: Any author who talks about his “brand” should have one on his forehead. Maybe a nice dollar sign.) As a kid, I don’t know what I would have done if not for the public library. Killed myself probably. I’ll never be certain why I didn’t wind up a teen statistic, but I suspect it had something to do with being able to lose myself in a book. And find myself. Learning to write was about becoming. Do composers feel that way? Or painters? Does the craft become a chrysalis? Michelangelo said he didn’t create his statues so much as free them from the stone. I suspect he freed himself as well.
So much rock to chip away. One makes slow progress.
Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/Robert-Dunbar/e...
No, my journey wasn’t about self-promotion, but even an artist needs to eat. In the years between books, I wrote poetry that appeared in several journals, and a number of my plays were produced in a variety of strange venues (few of which resembled actual theaters). So clearly I didn't eat much. But I also worked for a bewildering array of newspapers and magazines and finally – for my sins – wound up writing for television, mostly PBS and Discovery, that sort of thing.
But these days I concentrate on my fiction.
Not the smoothest of paths to follow.
No, it can be rough, and it’s so easy to get frustrated. Over the years, one critic would rave that The Pines was a “masterpiece of the genre” or another proclaim that The Shore was “surprisingly good for a horror novel,” and I’d be pleased for a split second, then plunge into despair. With Martyrs and Monsters – for the first time – reviewers began to avoid the patronizing restrictions when discussing my work and just talked about quality, and that made all the difference. Without this level of support, I’m not sure I would have had the courage to attempt a novel as complex as Willy. I’m very grateful.
With both of those books, I went back to the pine barrens. Readers are familiar with the setting now, but when I wrote THE PINES, the lore of the Leeds Devil was almost unknown outside of New Jersey. It was a rich vein to mine, because the legend boasts so many classic components: the hut in the swamp; the cursed thirteenth child. By exploring the atmosphere around the myth, rather than the myth itself, I tried to fashion the folklore into something meaningful and contemporary, as well as something intensely personal. There’s a Carl Jung quote about “owning your shadow.” Such a delicious phrase and so reassuring … as though by knowing the darkness we gain some measure of control over it. How could a writer – or any artist – resist this sort of intensity?
YA. NA. MM. The market is so obsessed with labels. You want to know what else interviewers are always asking me? Still in such confrontational tones? They always want to know why I don’t just write literary fiction instead of horror.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: I am writing literary fiction.
Just don’t tell anyone.
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