This Boy Wonders

If you’re having creative problems, I feel bad for you, son.
I’ve got 99 problems, but “a bitter ex-fan community” ain’t one.
- Jay-Z, lamely paraphrased

I’m not a huge fan of the fantasy genre, but these two things have come to my attention over the past day or so, both very applicable not only to fantasy writing, but any kind of creative endeavor.

1. After reading this New Yorker piece on fantasy author George R. R. Martin (not to be confused with Beatles producer George “No Middle Initials, Please” Martin), I’m confused.

Is it better to be a relative unknown in your chosen creative field, or to have a fan base that loves your work so much you become paralyzed in indecision trying to give them more?

I’ve always assumed that “more fans=better,” but if the weight of outside expectation keeps you waffling so long that some very vocal fans start to take the waiting personally, maybe there’s something to be said for obscurity. Writer’s block is hard enough without people who used to respect you obsessively mocking you for your unfinished work.

2. On the other end of the spectrum, there’s another fantasy author, Glen Cook, whose first few novels were written while he worked on an assembly line for GM. Not in his spare time after work, but during the 5 minute breaks he’d have throughout his shift.

The next time I complain about not having enough time to create while working all day in front of a keyboard and monitor, I want to remember that.

I am more and more convinced every day that all advertising is now being created by Dudley Moore and a motley, lovable group of mental patients.

Seriously. Watch this:

and tell me it doesn’t sound like the product of a pitch session like this:

Randomness: it’s what’s for dinosaur.

FUN FUN FUN FUN

Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there. I just was singing the chorus to everyone’s new favorite song for the next 5 minutes, Rebecca Black’s deconstruction of the “party song” genre, “Friday.” I normally wouldn’t link to something that’s going to be over so soon here (if indeed it isn’t already “over”), but when one is so overcome by the power and beauty of art, one must speak. And besides, it is Frah-ee-day.

Black has encapsulated the major existential dilemma of humanity here. Who hasn’t crumbled in indecision, Hamlet-like, over the choice between what seat of the automobile in which they should “kick it”? Not one to rest on her laurels philosophizing, though, she kindly plays teacher, giving us a remedial lesson in the days of the week, and their relationship to each other. This is one for the ages.

It may sound a little chipper to some of you. If that’s the case, I present to you the somewhat slowed-down version, which takes the perkiness of the original and pitches it down to a positively morose E-flat dirge. I really think it works better this way. Musically, it almost sounds like what would happen if The Cure fell out of love on the titular day.

Also, demons rapping and shouting “YEAH!”

In the immortal words of John Cleese, I apologize unreservedly.