impatience for the new excludes … the new

A couple of weeks ago, I heard a new song I instinctively liked, which turned out to be by … Let's call this artist Hot New Thang.1

But after a couple more listens, I just started to feel cheated and, eventually, resentful.

The reason is simple: HNT's song has a very distinctive sound to it. Someone else's sound.

Now, being a writer rather than a musician, I haven't spent a whole lot of time analysing music and its nuances, so it's possible my ear is simply not refined enough to hear the difference between HNT and the someone else who very obviously influenced said HNT. But even if that is the case, that makes me no different from the rest of the listening public, who will also notice the similarity. I'd lay bets that a good slice of said listening public will turn away from HNT's first album because it's derivative.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest victim of our hunger for the next new thing.

We, the consuming public, are always hungry for new voices. I imagine this is normal enough. We like art that speaks strongly to us, and new voices have, on account of being new, an element of surprise that can increase their impact. So the people who feed us our art are always looking for the next new thing.

That's not the problem. The problem is what happens when we find that next new thing. Because lately it seems to me that, more and more, we're rushing our artists.

We're finding them young — awfully young.2 And they have potential, oh boy do they have potential, they're damn well overflowing with it. But they're so young they haven't found their own voice yet. They're so young that their voice is nothing more than a clumsy mishmash of all their influences, with a scintillating promise of their potential peeking out through the gaps.3

And we idolise them, not for what they've actually achieved, but for their potential. What we think they can achieve. We rush them into celebrity so fast we push them ahead of their learning curve, so far ahead that they outstrip their current talent. By the time their talent has caught up with them, and they've digested all their early influences and found a truly unique voice of their own, the advertising/celebrity machine has done its job so well, and saturated every corner of the market with every possible mention of them, that we're bored.

Somehow, we who are eternally hungry for new voices, have created (or at least participated in creating) a system that ensures the only new voices we get are too young to be anything but derivative — and when those voices outgrow their origins, and evolve into something truly new, we're so overexposed we can't hear it.

Has anybody else noticed this?

Is anybody else frustrated to all hell and back by this?

  1. Bear with me — I'm going to try and tell this story without naming names. Partly because I have an aversion to speaking negatively in a public forum about creative work I didn't enjoy, for whatever reason, and mostly because names have no real bearing on the point I'm trying to make. [↩]
  2. It occurs to me at this point that my use of the word young may lead you to suspect I mean calendar age. And while I'm not precluding calendar age, what I really mean is in terms of experience in a creative endeavour. So if you're suddenly thinking Ah-hah! By HNT she means that child-star who has a song consisting entirely of, as far as I can make out, the word Baby repeated over and over and over again until you would like your eyeballs to spontaneously start bleeding just for something different to break the pace, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but he is not the artist who triggered this thought. (And if you're now thinking I thought you weren't going to name names, Deb? … um, yeah. Shaddup.) [↩]
  3. This is normal. Everyone's early work is derivative, because with anything you learn by doing, and you learn how to do something by copying someone who already can. And only with practise do you learn how to borrow the skillsets of other artists without falling into mimicry. [↩]

Sons & Daughters (The Decemberists — Live @ The Metro)

21 July 2010 @ 16:11 | 4 Comments

but i guess they do that here, i dunno

The lovely Mek posted this yesterday, and I can't help but post it myself for those of you who read my journal but not hers, because I love me a bit of whimsy, and this sort of stuff makes me laugh out loud:

In other news, I appear to have started yet another novel. Yes, before finishing that short story which has glomped and bulled its way into novellette territory, and before finishing the faerie novel. And before so much as starting those seven or so novels lined up in the back of my brain, impatiently waiting their turn to be written. Er, oops? My only excuse is that enthusiasm is infectious. My plan is to finish the short story while writing this new novel, and then finish the faerie novel while writing this new novel. No plan survives first contact, of course, but we'll see how we go.

I'm keen to get more writing done this year, partly because after Shadow Bound I have nothing contracted and, you know, I'd really like that to change; and partly because my ability to pin words to the page seems to have slowed down frighteningly of late. I don't know if the words I am pinning down are better put together, and will therefore require less editing. Here's hoping, because that would mean the extra time I'm taking now will be recouped later and it might all even out. (That just sounds too neat to be true, though.)

Chinese Bones (The Decemberists — Live)

8 March 2010 @ 16:43 |

next time i'm near a pet store…

Lookit: Know what's cooler than Wolverine? A newt!

The Spanish ribbed newt responds to threats by thrusting out its rib bones, which then get coated with toxic skin secretions. The newt is actually rotating its ribs forward until their spear-sharp points pierce through warts in the animal's skin.

Damnit, now I want me a newt. On the upside, a newt is possibly one of those pets you could legitimately have in a rental property. H'm…

Summer The First Time (DAAS — Blue)

30 August 2009 @ 15:35 |

i can see my future, and there are edits in it

Today I have exceedingly good news: I have sold a story to ASIM. Tentative publication date is April 2010.

For those playing along at home, I wrote the first draft of this story in January 2005, during my stint at Clarion. (Actually, since it was my week one story, I probably started it, in some brief and jotted form at least, in late December 2004.) I can't remember what I called it at the time (probably something genius like "Untitled"), but it's since acquired the title "Shaping Lily".

The story was inspired by the meeting of two ideas: an epic(ish) quest fantasy story wherein the main character was a little old lady, and Web of Light, by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law. (And in seeking out that link for you, I've only just gone and gotten myself lost in browsing Stephanie's site. Again.)

It's a quaint little story, and one I'm very fond of, so I'm glad it's found a good home.

And in updating my spreadsheet which records these things for me, I've belatedly realised I have exactly one short story currently doing the rounds of submissions, and nothing else to offer. I do have a handful of short stories in serious need of revising (some of my Clarion stories are still languishing, for example — although I think they'll stay languishing, except for one, which may turn into a novel. Like I need yet another novel idea in the queue. Still, too many ideas is a nicer problem to have than not enough ideas, I suppose).

H'm. Perhaps it's time to work on revising or drafting a short story or two.

Swans and the Swimming (Iron & Wine — Around The Well)

11 July 2009 @ 11:36 | 8 Comments

the view from the tram

There's an old man I see on the trams, every couple of weeks or so, has the look of decay about him. Emaciated, with wisps of papery hair clinging to the back of his grey-skinned scalp, ears grown too large for his frame, and eyes sinking into their sockets. The flesh of his eye sockets is so heavy, so ancient and stretched, that they sag open, revealing their raw pink interior, in stark contrast with the yellowed eyes above, like a basset hound caught in the pallid grey throes of chemotherapy.

His suit is neat, and pressed, although it is probably as out of date as he is, and I've only ever seen the one suit on him.

There are stories in the creases of his skin, stories in the way he moves, the way he holds his shoulders as he waits. Stories in the quiet way he accepts everyone's furtive glances, and in the weave of his well-preserved suit. A thousand stories, carefully gathered and held against the ravages of time.

But he has the look of someone who's never asked to tell any of them.

23 June 2009 @ 18:43 | 4 Comments

this is the part where i start making no sense during a conversation

A productive day on the short story today; I finally, after days of false starts, feel like I'm getting somewhere. (Did I mention I think outlining in advance is much more efficient? I did, didn't I? Although, to be fair to my poor beleaguered brain, this story is not entirely without (my kind of) outline. I know the characters, and their motivations, and I know the arc of the story. It just wasn't flowing.)

I've hit the end of the first third, and this is the dangerous time. This is the time when the world-building starts to reinforce itself and remind me I need to actually include it in the story, not just in my head. The characters start doing things which remind me I haven't foreshadowed that particular motivation yet, oops. The plot starts to hang on a few threads I'd meant to set up, honestly, I knew I meant to, I just got sidetracked.

Do you see the danger? This is the point in the story when I want to go back and start revising. And I am not allowed to, on pain of never finishing a story death.

This is the point where I start racing, wanting to get to the end so I can revise, and simultaneously I start toying with the idea of just tweaking this paragraph, just this section, just this whole manuscript so far. Because I hate the idea of the start of the story being broken, and not matching the ending, and what if I do forget the changes I need to incorporate, even though I've just taken the time to write myself a copious note in the margin?1 I've even toyed with the idea of letting myself write two drafts of this story simultaneously, writing the first draft and then, as a reward once I'd hit the day's quota, opening a fresh copy and revising as I go.2

Also, I am really, really tempted to name this story after the lyrics in a Cyndi Lauper song. That would be wrong, wouldn't it? It could also be expensive, which would definitely make it wrong.3

  1. This is not entirely an irrational fear. I've written myself some very strange notes in the margin in my time. I swear I thought they all made sense at the time, but that does not always mean they make sense on the second pass. At least short stories generally have less time between passes, so there's more chance I'll remember. [↩]
  2. Writers really is nuts. Who would think that's a reward? [↩]
  3. But I still wanna. [↩]

Sad & Beautiful World (Sparklehorse — Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot)

16 January 2009 @ 17:04 | 6 Comments

nose to the grindstone

Pledged is duly rechapterised, and I'm celebrating by … starting another project straight away.

Yeah, it's not particularly smart, there's this little thing called downtime which I hear is really effective in guarding against burnout… but this project (untitled, like all my new projects, which makes blogging about them tricksome at best) is a short story, and contracted, so I kinda hafta start it now. If I want to, you know, eat. No biggie.

I also have one (contracted) novel outline, one short story collection critique, and one (uncontracted) (for now) novel outline that needs doing sooner rather than later. It's a good thing I don't have a dayjob at the moment. When I quit the baby mines, everyone was saying things like, "Oh, wow! Two months off work. Think of all the sleeping in you'll be able to do!" I always smiled and nodded, but in my head I was replying, "Actually, I was thinking if I got up early every day, I'd be able to squeeze in even more writing!"

It's a sickness. Really.

Here, to distract you, have some links:

3 January 2009 @ 8:55 | 2 Comments

surreal, but 100% true

Yesterday, I'm driving home, and the mobile rings. Being responsible, I pulled over to the side of the road before attempting to answer it, by which time the phone had stopped ringing.

And while I'm busy with the phone, the passenger door opens, and I look up to see a little old lady clambering into the car.

Fortunately, my life experiences to date have equipped me with the perfect skill for dealing with this particular circumstance. I pasted on a smile and, feeling very Arthur Dent, managed to greet her with, "Er…hello?"

"You're early," she replied cheerfully. "And you're driving a different car."

"Ah. In fact, ma'am, I think I'm not the person you're waiting for," I suggested.

She peered at me, blinked, and said, "Oh! Oh, no, you're not!"

After which she promptly started clambering (in the slow and hesitant mannerism of the old and frail) out of the car.

4 December 2008 @ 19:20 | 9 Comments

you know what your decision is, which is not to decide

The problem with drinking while working is that it can quickly turn into just plain drinking, and from there it's a short stumble to "work? what? yes, of course, definitely pour me another."

Er…oops.

To keep things language-focussed, I did start a new game of awarding "vocabulary points" to those who used neglected or difficult or otherwise-impressive words, which resulted in our drunken conversation being relatively highbrow. (Although I must admit, toward the end of the night, the words did get harder to pronounce. This is when I started up the corollary game of awarding "enunciation points".) And I made everyone play freerice (which has evolved from being just about vocabulary and is now also about maps, chemical symbols, learning foreign languages, and artwork), so although we were drunken idjits, we were charitable drunken idjits.

At least I managed to get half of my words for the day before becoming totally delinquent, so that should help minimise today's catch-up.

In the meantime, the evolution of vampire moths is unspeakably cool.

On The Steps Of The Palace (Into The Woods)

3 November 2008 @ 16:09 | 16 Comments

my predictive library refuses to remember deb

The Alien Onion reports on a new trend wherein "book" evolves into meaning "cool", which I am linking both because I find the evolution of the english language a fascinating process, and because my publishers really do rock.

Lately, my brain appears to be fixating on txtspeak and lolspeak. For example, the dinner discussion last night centred for some time around whether we could discern a kiwi accent in the sender's choice of spelling, or whether we were making it up.1 I've spent a good part of the last week training Spawn in lolspeak.2 Also, I appear to have degenerated entirely in my own standards. A lolspeak habit, I has one.

I wonder if my brain is working on a story about language that I don't know about yet.

  1. I think we were making it up. I was more interested in the way the language was evolving so that this sort of unfixed and flexible spelling was not only accepted, but becoming the norm. [↩]
  2. What? She's young, and adaptable, so it won't scar her (too much), and I think it would be hilarious if she greeted her father with a tilted head and the phrase 'O RLY?' [↩]

1 November 2008 @ 7:52 | 5 Comments