What's up at Ravens March.

Vintage pens-Handmade books-Silly statements

Prep Cook

Posted by Dirck on 10 September, 2015

The latter word in today’s title describes what I’ve been doing with my brain this week.  The former explains why and how.  Over last weekend, while smashing my body with physical effort, I was also engaged in serious cognition regarding last week’s open question about possible means of getting money out of my art without having to be the most impressive thing wriggling around in a slush pile.  About the time I put down the last box, I had ground around to a conclusion.  I’ll get a separate venue set up for presenting my writing to the world, and once it’s ready for launch, I’ll tether a link to a Patreon account to it.  This week has seen me working up that new site, putting a final polish on a few stories, getting them into the shot-locker for present publication.

Part of the consideration ran thus:  While I am in need of money, there is satisfaction in the same genus, or perhaps order, as that derived from living in a city of many trees, if not quite the same species, to be taken from writing.  Writing for one’s own amusement, tapping out a nice little yarn and then stuffing it down the back of a drawer, offers a taste of that satisfaction, but it is, if I can merely allude to a metaphor, an unconsummated satisfaction.  Certainly, the first months of knocking out this blog (a word I still dislike, after all these years) were done with a sense of merely listening to my own head roar, but the discovery that actual people were casting their actual eyeballs over the words I was stringing together put the thing on an entirely different level.

It also introduced a foolish sense of duty to others in what had been a simple distraction, but that’s about flaws in my own make-up.  Let’s press on.

Consummation.  Writing is not fully formed until it is read.  This is only partially brought about by handing things to beta-readers at various removes; they’re looking for problems, after all.  Gliding within sight of my metaphor, there is a difference between disrobing in the doctor’s office and ditching the bathrobe at in the honeymoon suite.  So, whether Patreon produces the proverbial plug nickel or not, I will at least be reaching the ultimate phase of the writing act.  I am gratified by having some people in the fountain pen fora say, “That guy knows some stuff about pens,” and I hope I can look forward to more gratification from hearing (although I’m not sure where) “That guy gives the occasional literary shudder, doesn’t he?”

As a side-benefit, this sort of shaking of the money-maker whether it makes any money or not can, theoretically, give a little extra lustre to things I fling at future slush piles.  Or so I’m told.  It’s a comforting illusion, at least.

This means that sometime in the very near future, possibly even next week if I don’t lose my nerve, I’ll be making an announcement of the new venue’s opening on these pages.  It may also see the progress reports go by the board, although I still think there’s a role for them in keeping me honest in my creative labours… and they help me keep track of what pens I’ve been using, which assists in choosing the next subject for use.

Today’s pen (last used in January): Sheaffer Targa
Today’s ink: Iroshizuku Shin-Ryoku

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