Everybody wants to be a
famous writer these days, but nobody wants to read. A shocking number of
self-proclaimed authors seem to believe that reading anything other than their
own “brilliant” stuff will somehow ruin them, sap them of their
Wile-E.-Coyote-Super-Genius-like inspiration, and snuff out their personal
eternal flame of autoerotic originality. And what’s the result of this belief?
A lot of sloppy, rambling, self-indulgent, same-old-rooky-mistake-infected amateur
dreck, often little more than a weak echo of the one or two books these morons
actually did bother to read once upon a time. I slog through more of these
dilettante scribblings than I care to think about every month in the process of
vetting books for review on this site, and I can only say that I have come to
understand why so many of my English instructors in high school and college were
in such a perpetually sour mood. (Of course, some of them were simply being
their normal asshole selves, but most of them, I now see, had a pretty good
excuse.)
And it’s not only would-be
authors who don’t want to read; there’s a whole world of self-deluded wannabe
singer/song-writers, actors, composers, painters and performance artists, all
clamoring for attention; a nation of narcissists, scheming to copyright
themselves, dreaming of being discovered without actually having to do any hard
work, ultimately transcending themselves as their own brand. (One starry-eyed
dreamer who contacted me recently, with but a single self-published title to
her credit, is already inviting potential readers to write fanfic—talk about
the triumph of self-delusion over reality, not to mention carts before horses!)
People seem enthralled by this notion that what they have to say is uniquely
interesting or irresistibly compelling, and if they can only find the right
forum or platform for their self-expression; if they can only market themselves
a bit more aggressively; if they can only snag one more review from the “right”
venue, then the world will simply have
to recognize their specialness and reward them with fame, adulation, and untold
riches. A few wild tales of “overnight success”; a handful of fluke
“discoveries”; rumors of so-and-so’s latest fat advance, and the gold rush is
on. Never mind that those old media paradigms are now hopelessly obsolete. Self-expression
and self-indulgence are becoming one and the same. Professional creative
endeavor is doomed. And there’s a reason those riches are “untold”; for the
most part, they don’t exist.
Alright, perhaps I’m being
overly pessimistic—and please, shoot me if I ever turn into the old guy yelling
at the rotten kids to get off his lawn—but the question remains; what does an
aspiring author have to do to be heard in this increasingly noisy world of ours?
Beyond that; what does a writer need to do in order to be taken seriously? The simple answer is; to be heard, one must
have a voice. A writer’s voice does not necessarily need to be unique, or
striking or even particularly original; but, for a start, it must be strong,
clear, and well-focused. A writer’s voice is not an innate gift; it is
something that must be trained up; cultivated, nurtured, exercised, polished;
honed. To train the voice, a writer must do two things with unfailing
diligence; write constantly, and read voraciously. Constant writing is like weight lifting to
build up muscle mass; the regular habit of writing builds up the brain and
keeps it strong, while reading provides the fuel it needs to flourish.
No one is born a writer;
writing is learned, and no writer—no artist—ever steps out into the world fully
formed. Working through early influences is part of the artistic growth
process. There is nothing wrong or unnatural about being influenced. Rather
than resisting influences, a young writer should turn and face them head on
(preferably without trying to publish the early results). There is no piece of writing from which one may not learn. So
far from stifling one’s originality, good books offer models of what works; bad
books—and there are many—show us what not to do. When a writer attains
maturity, if not mastery, she will look back on her early influences and
understand the difference between the good books and the bad ones, recognizing
the lessons learned from both. The fact is, if reading other people’s
books had the power to snuff out one’s precious creative spark, there wasn’t much
of a spark to begin with. In truth, the
more one reads the less enthralled by
any single influence one is likely to be, and the more original one
becomes. But the need to read doesn’t
end with the attainment of mastery; it is a lifetime pursuit, and part of the ongoing
job. Ultimately, the more broadly one reads, the deeper one thinks, the better
one writes, and this process of literary symbiosis is never-ending.
And how to be taken
seriously? What I look for when vetting books for review is, first, that
strong, clear, fluent voice; confidence, competence, a solid command of
language, and an engaging style. Beyond
that, I want well-drawn, well-defined, smart, memorable characters undergoing a
process of growth or change; compelling conflict, a story that piques my
interest without being overly derivative or gratuitously far-fetched; a
narrative that continually moves forward. I want maturity—but not in the
euphemistic Triple-X sense of the word—a thoughtful, entertaining exploration
of grownup themes. Is this asking too much?
For your consideration then;
two recent works of fiction by a pair of authors whose voices may not necessarily
be unique or strikingly original, but nonetheless, at their best, pass the test
of clarity, fluency and strength with impressively high marks. Liberty St. James is a promising newcomer. Her first effort,
Lock Me Up and Set Me Free, is a
novella-length BDSM-tinged erotic romance with a memorable central female
character and the occasional flash of something approaching brilliance. Aimee
Nichols’ recent collection of erotic short stories, The Mercy of Strange Men, offers up some very fine writing with enough
passion and insight to compel page-turning. Both writers shine when describing what is
immediate and real and most arousing to them. Beyond sex, for St. James, this
is the transporting orgasmic power of music. For Nichols, it is the perpetual
flux of urban life; another kind of music; the pulse of the bar scene; the grit
and sweat of the crowd. Both titles offer much to enjoy, though neither is
recommended wholly without caveat.
Lock Me Up and Set Me Free by Liberty St.
James
With a
surprisingly good story, and an unforgettable female lead, this debut novella
from Liberty St. James comes as a thoroughly pleasant surprise. What might have
been yet another run-of-the-mill erotic romance with BDSM a la mode transcends ordinary genre fare with its empathy and depth
of insight into character. Tam is smart, clear-headed, and strong-willed;
submissive but never a pushover, that is, the perfect bottom. Hired to provide
musical entertainment at a country estate’s New Year’s gathering, St. James’ bi-sexual
heroine accepts an offer to get away from her workaday routine, and act as a
slave for a young businessman and his fiancée over the weekend. “Sometimes,”
she tells us,
I like to move out of my slap-dash, hand to mouth
existence, and play at being pampered. Sitting at the top table in the
restaurant of the moment, drinking champagne and flirting. Lying like the
Rokeby Venus on some chaise lounge in a flat looking over London, naked except
for real pearls or a silk scarf round my waist, while a man sits fully clothed
in the chair opposite, watching me touch myself while he smokes. There’s
something about that much quiet luxury; something that’s almost melancholy,
like being indoors in winter while rain batters the window.”
Granted, we
could do with fewer exchanges like this:
“Keep them wide. No moving. My god, you’re wet.
Fuck, you’re beautiful. Ah, you beautiful, beautiful little slut.”
Honestly? If the
Victorians had made porno videos, something like this could have been the
soundtrack. Can erotic writers PLEASE (!) do something to make their
characters’ “naughty talk” more varied, interesting and realistic? Still, while
St. James’ scenes of BDSM play seem rather contrived, repetitious and often boring
(less would definitely seem like more, here), what keeps us reading are
passages like this:
I love music as much—more than—I love sex. I want
to drown in it; lose myself in it. Falling into music makes me feel safe, as if
someone is holding me up. While I listened, I decided to let myself fall into
this weekend the same way and not resist. Total submission. I’ve flirted with
it before but never properly given myself to it
At an appropriate point I do a slow strip to You
Made Me Love You. The dress, hat, and gloves come off. Underneath I’m in a
corset, frilly pants and stockings. I sing I Want to Be Loved By You with
brunette sleaze rather than blonde Marilyn Monroe dizziness. Then I get the
cello out and play the prelude from Bach’s Cello Suite Number 1. You know the
one, that famous one; the only cello tune you’ve ever heard on the radio or as
the backing to an advert. I play it in my corset and stockings. I play it as if
it’s turning me on like no-one I’ve ever known; I play it like I’m fucking the
music. I am fucking the music. It does turn me on like no-one I’ve ever known.
If I died playing the cello, I’d die happy.
Liberty St.
James is a writer with enormous potential, and a newcomer to watch. In spite of
its subtle flaws, overdone sex scenes, and a male lead whose demons are just a
bit too predictable to be compelling, Lock
Me Up and Set Me Free is nonetheless an impressive first effort and recommended
to those in search of something new.
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The Mercy of Strange Men by Aimee
Nichols
This collection
of well-crafted short stories from Australian author, Aimee Nichols is
something of a mixed bag. There is sufficient contrast in mood and voice to
keep things interesting, but it’s clear the author was more invested in some
fantasies than others. She is at her best when her passions shine through; but has
some difficulty disguising her distaste—occasionally approaching contempt—for
some of her more conventional scenarios. The most interesting stories take us
into steamy urban undergrounds, indie rock dives, kinky sex clubs, and seedy
apartment back-bedrooms, as in The Gospel
of Sophie, a genuinely first-rate ménage narrative, or the gloriously
passionate lesbian encounters of Lipstick
and Strap On Sex is So Passé. Nichols
conveys considerably less enthusiasm when inhabiting the heads of serendipitous
voyeurs (The Window and Down in the Park), and the
overly-stylized psychological monodrama of the title story leaves the reader
with a bewildering sense of literary déjà vu, bringing nothing new or
positively exciting to the standard BDSM scenario. Far more successful is the
exceptionally well-thought-out All Eyes
On Him, written from the perceptively mature reference of an experienced
fem-dom:
This is the story we are used to. Women, and
especially attractive young women, are meant to be attracted to power. We’re
meant to be the reason why men who make no effort to please anyone but
themselves bemoan their lack of ability to get the women they feel they deserve.
We’re supposed to accept status and money in exchange for being dominated. Some
of us know that’s not the only narrative . . . Topping helps me find
equilibrium, brings a dynamic to a relationship that allows me to relax into
things. I like to know where I stand with the person I’m fucking or playing
with, and I like them to know where I stand, which sexually speaking is over
them, and usually holding something used to inflict pain.
The beauty of
any short-fiction anthology is that readers may quickly seek out the gems while
giving the tailings a pass. With more than a fair proportion of well-refined erotic
literary ore; Aimee Nichols’ The Mercy of
Strange Men is a vein adventuresome readers will surely want to tap.
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