Fuller Wiser

Exile

Fuller Wiser — Tue, 01 May 2012 19:18:00 +0000

Cliches are well-trodden for a reason. Though the hoary old tale of the writer who shuts himself up in a country cabin may seem but a ploy to tickle journalistic fancies, it can also just be a damned good idea.

Thus I return, not to the land of my fathers, but to that of my fathers’ fathers, in the dusty scrub of west Texas. A muse has chased me out here on a mission of its own designs, and I have been given leave to comply, come what may. The novella which has tapped steadily at the back of my brain for the last five years has at last been completed, and I hope it may soon find publication.

On its heels is another story which will take more time in the telling, and in what format I am uncertain. But the piece of myself that has been missing, the space into which my mind goes as I compose an account of events that never occurred, has been restored. It’s hard to say how long it’s been since I last entered that sphere, but I am gratified to find it right more or less where I left it.

Spring in these parts comes and goes without much notice. The brown of winter is briefly replaced with patches of green, which even now are resolving to the brown of summer. Visitors are few, and generally arrive on more than two legs. Twisted cedars frame the edges of the night sky, like an analog Instagram photo. A crude simile, far from Walden Pond, but such is the age in which we live.

Above all, it is quiet. For a former urbanite, sometimes alarmingly so. I know intellectually that the world over, humans clatter along in their noisy way, bulldozing the past to create a future which lasts only as long as it takes the next bulldozer to arrive. But the horizon here shows no sign of encroachment, except perhaps from the point of view of my animal neighbors. A human has come to live among them. They eye me curiously, and have for the moment determined that I am benign. They may be right. And that is what I have come out here to discover.

Me and H.P., Part Two

Fuller Wiser — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 15:10:55 +0000

Evidence is a confusing thing. Me and H.P. know that well.

Faced with broad public indifference and limited fan retention, an artist might decide that what he is doing is not up to snuff for the long haul.

But based on what we know about art in the long haul, that judgment could just as easily be false. A large number of artists remain obscure until their deaths, and their works live on far longer than those of their contemporaries who were more popular during their lives.

We also know that sometimes an artist does not find their proper milieu until after years of chasing down wrong paths. H.P. Lovecraft, for example, focused on ineffectual verse for most of his life before discovering that prose was his true means of expression.

To complicate matters, I have online followers who have never bought anything I’ve created. If one is popular for the things that one says, but not for the art that one produces, perhaps a change of direction is warranted. Or perhaps an augementation of focus.

This is difficult to do, however, when the art has turned into the sole means of income. I sought this career path in the midst of clinical anxiety and depression, hoping to find paying creative work that would keep me from going insane. It’s still a work in progress, of course, but the farther I go down the original creative route I’ve been charting all these years, the returns have not increased substantially.

And yet I have works yet unreleased whose quality I don’t question, and the only way to get them out is to apply the time available to me when I don’t work meaningless dayjobs 40 hours a week. I don’t feel I can move on to the projects that are less certain until I make sure I’ve gotten the best of my current incarnation out into the world. And that will take some time.

Some of it is time allotment. I used to work later into the night on things rather than unwind with a movie, but that left me sleepless very often as well. A year of self-employment has put me in danger of taking for granted the very fact that I can work on these things instead of finding instant gratification the “normal” ways.

But I have to relax sometime. I tried running 24/7 the first couple of months on my own, and it was plainly unsustainable. Especially when the result of the work is uncertain.

And that’s really the crux. I spent so much time on the first installments of my work, and then upon release, got a lot of enthusiasm, but almost no money. The completion of the projects just doesn’t seem as urgent to me as it did when I believed they would be my sustaining income.

Which brings us to another Lovecraft parallel. After his best work was rejected numerous times, he lost the will to create. I am experiencing a similar conundrum. What’s it for? Posterity, I suppose, but I have to live this life now. Shall I pour all my energies into things which will not bear fruit until I’m no longer around? Perhaps that will be good for my son, but I’m not sure if it’s enough for me.

But if not, then what? Back to the office? Back to mind-deadening tedium? That brings me no closer to my goals either.

I won’t get my ideal situation, which is to take some time off from my current projects and work on the new ideas I’ve got percolating. For all I know, those are the things that will finally bring the best of me out. Perhaps the indifference I’m hearing is justified because I haven’t found my true voice.

Or maybe that voice is speaking right now to ears that won’t hear it until my death has convinced them of my artistic worthiness. Worse, maybe the most receptive ears haven’t even been born yet.

But of course that’s a convenient theory for many artists to explain away their lack of success. Sometimes the truth is far more simple: Close, no cigar.

In any case, what does it mean for me? I’m not really sure. But it worries me.

“It takes a worried man to sing a worried song

I’m worried now, but I won’t be for long…”

- A Worried Man (traditional)

“Could have given up so easily

I was a few cheap shots away from the end of me

Taken for granted

most everything

that I would have died for

Just yesterday…”

- Paramore, Looking Up

Me and H.P.

Fuller Wiser — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:42:46 +0000

Been reading an H.P. Lovecraft bio, and I find that we have a great deal in common when it comes to our aesthetic philosophy and tendencies.

One thing that caught my attention is his attitude towards realism in fiction. His contention is that reality should be the province of philosophers, and that fiction should strive to provide a world that reality does not provide us unfortunate mortals. I’m increasingly drawn to this conclusion myself. Reality does not become more engaging upon closer examination, in my experience. It loses its luster quickly, and the sparkle cannot return.

Perhaps it’s time to put this theory to the test in my own creative work. I’ve spent most of my career focusing on the examination of reality. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me these days.

On to other worlds?

M.O.

Fuller Wiser — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 22:46:27 +0000

There are two ways of gaining a group of like-minded friends. One is to seek them out. The other is to alienate everyone else. I’ve been doing both for many years. Wondering if number two is necessary to achieve number one.

Well…

Fuller Wiser — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:32:12 +0000

…I let you in, now where did you go?

Okay…

Fuller Wiser — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 05:19:04 +0000

…you can come in. Even if I’m not entirely sure who you are.

Relapsing

Fuller Wiser — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:56:11 +0000

Reports of my demise may or may not be substantiated here at a later date. Haven’t given up yet.

Although I will say that I will go to my grave without understanding the popularity of the mediocre arts. People are horrible.

That is to say…

Fuller Wiser — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 05:22:34 +0000

You know, one never knows when the world will leap up and surprise you with wonderfulness. Optimism without caution, can you believe it?

Back In The Hole

Fuller Wiser — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 18:37:39 +0000

That feeling of hope was so wonderful while it lasted. Time to go back to more familiar ground, despair in the face of immovable facts. Magic doesn’t exist. And fuck me for ever thinking it did.

The New Year

Fuller Wiser — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 16:50:45 +0000

So. New year, new approach.

In this space, I have often bemoaned the fact that my daylight hours are most often taken up with noncreative tasks, primarily the dayjob. As it happens, though, the dayjob in question happens to have quite a few long stretches where nothing much happens at all.

Since reading headlines & blog posts about our impending meltdown only gives me a knot in my stomach these days, I’ve decided that these gaps between working will be used for writing. I have words in me, and may as well write them down on the clock rather than off.

I will post writings as they come to me. Here’s to creation in the face of destruction.