Are WordPress writers, YouTube musicians & Instagram photographers the new generation of starving artists or the pioneers of a new economic system? As some of you already know, I’m completing some research on the whether blogging devalues the written word. However, I’ve come across an interesting article that suggests that they might instead be the first ‘chosen few’ onto the proverbial Arc as it were, while capitalism is swept away in the flood leaving the earth cleansed.
Tag Archives: Creative writing
So everyone, I’m starting a project about writers blogging and the potential for devaluation of intellectual property. I think that this must be an issue at the back of every blogger writers mind. We blog for exposure, for pleasure and to connect with people; this seems needless to say. Further, not everything we produce could be said to have a monetary value – this project for example which I am completing for my MA. However, where then, as writers, do we draw the line? That short story you’ve been working on? The novel you’ve just given the final proofread to? The screenplay you’re struggling to find an agent for? Should you post it online for free? Why? Why not?
I think that we all have our own ideas of where exposure – literary or otherwise – turns from the golden tan to sunstroke. In the coming weeks I’ll be delving deeper down the rabbit-hole and asking bloggers and writers how they tread the tightrope between what they should give away and what they expect payment for.
I’m more than happy to hear anyone’s views on this matter so feel free to comment on the post, send me an email: email@example.com or ask for a questionnaire if that helps.
I know this may seem strange, but to me a story is like an organism. It’s alive in itself. I’ve been thinking a lot more about this concept in my work. I don’t feel like I am the person that controls the world, in a way. I’m the one that designs it. However, it’s not really my decision what the characters actually do in the world that I give them. I’m aware of the hypocrisy & ludicrous nature of such a statement. Though, it seems like the most honest way that I can describe the process for me as a writer.
I don’t believe that it’s often people find resemblance between themselves and great men in terms of personality defects. However, in this case I find the comparison quite pertinent. It’s been said of Da Vinci that he often grew dispassionate about some projects once he had fully planned them. This is one reason given for that fact that he didn’t complete many of his projects. His interest was simply drawn to other areas. I must admit that recently – more than ever – I have been identifying with this ‘flaw’ (for lack of a better term to describe it).
I take the pills in a withered hand. It shakes. Not from fear though. It hasn’t stopped since the day you passed. The flask-warmed tea tastes bitter as the pills dissolve within it. The two curdle together in my mouth. Not long now. Or so I hope.
A hole in the moth-eaten tweed draws my brittle fingers toward it. Purple snake-veins protrude from the wrinkled milky waste. I attempt to mask the hole from…from whom? Is there anybody left to even notice and, if they did, to care.
Your duck is still here. He looks unsure of whether to take the crumbs that I throw towards him. Perhaps they were sweeter coming from you. But then again everything was sweeter coming from you. The ground that I walk upon is now worth more than everything and everyone that walks upon it, because you rest within it.
All the ducks seem less eager for sustenance without your presence. For them, the very act of eating has lost all joy, point or purpose. They merely wade aimlessly. The sky above is a dirty blue and the sun stifles the inside of my collar.
The clouds come down upon me all at once. The colours fade to a pureness of white. I see your face. You smile as I reach out to wipe the joyous tear from your cheek.
John Milton – after going blind in his later years – was heard to have walked around the house muttering ‘I want to be milked. I want to be milked.’ Though this seems like a symptom of dementia; it was in fact his way of describing his frustration to write when his squire was late to transcribe what he said. However, even with this qualification, the analogy does seem rather ludicrous at first glance. Can the act of writing really be described as the release a cow gains from being milked?
Freud asserts that ‘a piece of creative writing, like a daydream, is a continuation of, and a substitute for, what was once the play of childhood.’ Is that what the writer is doing when she write? Playing a game? In some ways, I have to agree. The writer – like the child – gives into her imaginative side and allows herself to roam free from this world and into the ‘worlds’ of her own mind. I know myself that my own sanity at times relies on the fact that I do write.