I Got You (Master Series Book 22)

Contents:

  • Master Series
  • Falling short: seven writers reflect on failure
  • More Resources:
  • Frequently bought together

    • Master Series

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    Falling short: seven writers reflect on failure

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    He could be charming company; he could be a pain in the arse to work with. Don't fuck up like X, I would repeat to myself. After one long, rambling, solipsistic intro, he finally asked me, "Why am I ringing you, love? He got the sack from his weekly column. His byline appeared sporadically. I heard that he had quit the booze, and was trying to quit smoking. He was down to 17 a day, and to encourage self-discipline used to keep a note of each time he lit up. Then there was silence; then I heard that he had died — alone of course. I went to the funeral.

    Some of his early, highly skilled poems were read out, and I was saddened again by the subsequent offence against his talent. They had turned out well; both were charming and intelligent. They spoke with proper roundedness and affection for their father; the daughter described how he had coached her to get into Cambridge, how patient and helpful he had been.

    And I had been wrong, or had only partly understood. As I left the crematorium for the wake, I was saying to myself — and to him — "No, you didn't fuck up after all. I have no problem with failure - it is success that makes me sad. I do it every day, I have been doing it for years. This is not an affectation, failure is what writers do. It is built in.

    And then redo it, so it reads better. The writer's great and sustaining love is for the language they work with every day. It may not be what gets us to the desk but it is what keeps us there and, after 20 or 30 years, this love yields habit and pleasure and necessity.

    More Resources:

    Master Series. 36 primary Alexandra or Alex as she liked to be called was a More .. Book I Got You. by Justus Roux. · 28 Ratings · 3 Reviews ·. I'm deeply grateful for the time and attention of the master writers assembled here . You're obviously not writing a memoir here, but this book is still partly about you — the world The minute presentation is on YouTube I believe the Eragon series was written by a teenager – you'll want to check for.

    All this is known. In the long run we are all dead, and none of us is Proust. The zen of it is that success and failure are both an illusion, that these illusions will keep you from the desk, they will spoil your talent; they will eat away at your life and your sleep and the way you speak to the people you love. The problem with this spiritual argument is that success and failure are also real. You can finish a real book and it can be published or not, sell or not, be reviewed or not.

    Each one of these real events makes it easier or harder to write, publish, sell the next book.

    And the one after that. If you keep going and stay on the right side of all this, you can be offered honours and awards, you can be recognised in the street, you can be recognised in the streets of several countries, some of which do not have English as a native language. You can get some grumpy fucker to say that your work is not just successful but important, or several grumpy fuckers, and they can say this before you are quite dead.

    And all this can happen, by the way, whether or not your work is actually good, or still good. Success may be material but is also an emotion — one that is felt, not by you, but by the crowd.

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    This is why we yearn for it, and can not have it, quite. It is not ours to hold. I am more comfortable with the personal feeling that is failure than with the exposure of success. I say this even though I am, Lord knows, ambitious and grabby, and I want to be up there with the rest of them. With perfectly good lives. And you come to appreciate the ones who have figured all that shit out. Some people like all that, but I, for reasons I have not yet figured out, find it difficult. I don't want to be an object. I find jealousy unpleasant because it is unpleasant.

    The writer's life is one of great privilege, so "Suck it up", you might say — there are more fans than trolls. But there are two, sometimes separate, ambitions here. One is to get known, make money perhaps and take a bow — to be acknowledged by that dangerous beast, the crowd. The other is to write a really good book. And a book is not written for the crowd, but for one reader at a time. I still have this big, stupid idea that if you are good enough and lucky enough you can make an object that insists on its own subjective truth, a personal thing, a book that shifts between its covers and will not stay easy on the page, a real novel, one that lives, talks, breathes, refuses to die.

    And in this, I am doomed to fail. I was a Blake baby. I kept my mother waiting, arriving not just late but at a peculiar angle. He would just have liked me to be everybody's friend, the way he was. And I failed him. I failed my mother too by taking far too precocious an interest in sex. And I failed myself by not knowing how to get any. But you have to see failure as an opportunity.

    I took the route favoured by all worldly failures and became a spiritual success.

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    That might be an inflated way of putting it, but failures are nothing if not grandiose. We become special by virtue of not being special enough. I doubt many writers were made any other way. If we are all beautiful, all clever, all happy, all successes in our way, what do we want with the language of the dispossessed? But the nature of failure ensures that writers will go on writing no matter how many readers they have.

    You have to master the embarrassments and ignominies of life.

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    The first novel I wrote had failure as a subject. Success as the worldly estimate it is, is rarely a subject for literature. Gatsby cannot possibly get Daisy. Dorothea Brooke cannot be allowed to change the world. Thus does art get its own back on those without the imagination to fail. It is this failure — a ceaseless threnody keening through the writing mind — that dominates my working life, just as an overweening sense of not having loved with enough depth or recklessness or tenderness dominates my personal one.

    I prize this sense of failure — embrace it even. As a child I loved a John Glashan cartoon that showed a group of meths drinkers lying around on the floor of a squat. When anyone starts out to do something creative — especially if it seems a little unusual — they seek approval, often from those least inclined to give it.

    But a creative life cannot be sustained by approval, any more than it can be destroyed by criticism — you learn this as you go on. The positive and the negative are not so much self-cancelling as drowned out by that carping, hectoring internal voice that goads me on and slaps me down all day every day. It follows, I'm afraid, that what we might call institutional success — prizes, fellowships, honours — also seems pretty irrelevant to me. I may think those who accept them gladly are being hopelessly infra dig, but I still envy them: And then there are those who both believe in the verdict of posterity, and also believe — somewhat paradoxically — that they have already achieved it.

    Some poor fools, at this point in their careers, get a pharaonic delusion that they are being interred in the canonical Cheops while they yet breathe. We've all seen the symptoms of this: And of course, the vast majority of today's mummified immortals are tomorrow's Ozymandiases. No, this is the paradox for me: