December has, thankfully, been more productive than the rest of the year although it’s only a relative, not absolute, measure. I’ve added 10,800 words to the first draft of Descent: Diaspora and am about 5% through.

It can be a little daunting when faced with the constant social media barrage of authors churning out 10,000 words a week or, in what I assume can only be a RedBull charged orgy of prose, a day, but I remind myself it’s not a race or a competition, and we all manage in our own unique, individual ways. Thankfully I have a quote attributed to Hemmingway permanently glued to my writing space (although at times I wish I had his liquor cabinet instead), reminding me that the first draft of anything is sh*t. I’m not sure if he meant contents, pace of writing, or language, but I’ll take all three and not feel so bad.

Lately I’ve been mulling over just what it is I’m actually doing here. I mean, I know I’m writing, but what the heck is that? Hours spent over paper and pen fighting over a sentence, a word, an emotion that won’t translate from mind to paper; silence of the long evening hours locked away; an enforced, monastic-like existence for the sake of my own ego believing, nay praying that someday, someway, someone will have my work in their hands, read my poor attempt at prose and be touched. Honestly, if I could get a clinical psychologist to have a cold, hard look they’d probably diagnose me with some form of narcissistic egomania and lock me away until the end of time.

What (perhaps) could be worse is that, save for the pleasure of the act of writing, everything else that follows is a hard, long, gut-busting slog; draft from paper to computer, editing draft to draft to draft (only five if I’m doing well), line edits, feedback from my beloved pack of beta-reader attack dogs, back and forth with the publisher, polish, re-polish to final launch. All of which, from last dot on paper to published book is at least two years in the same singular, obsessive mindset from which draft one emerged spent hammering away for that one brief, glorious moment of launch. Delayed gratification at it’s worst, best, or perverted ultima thule.

That’s not the end of it, not by any chalk. Then there’s months, years watching sales figures that will never be adequate, never pay back the time or effort put in. An average, full-time author, apparently, earns around the $14,000 a year gross from their craft – out of which everything from taxes, paper, electricity, necessaries to produce has to come before they can think of luxuries like food, medicine, housing. So a novel in three years? If it takes two hours a night (I wish) then I’d put in about 2,192 hours for each novel; and even if I managed $14,000 a year across all three, it’s barely $19 an hour – I’d do better with Uber or flipping burgers.

I’ve got no answers; none for you, my wife, my friends who think what little mental facilities remain with me are failing, my doctor who fears the first case of vitamin D deficiency in the area, or my neighbors who wonder at nefarious, silent goings-on past the witching hour every night. There can be no logical answer; I’m not getting rich, I’m not going to be famous, and in all honestly I doubt if, in a hundred years, my novels will be more than a statistical entry far, far down some AI’s spreadsheet. I just have to write, it’s as simple as that. Stop me writing, stop me breathing. Maybe that’s all the answer I need.

Finally, I’ve had an old nursery rhyme going round my head for a while. You know the one, ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words …’ etc., used by millions of children across the world in the flaming cauldron of pre-teenager existence. Words will never harm me. Oh yeah? What happens if you grow up to be an author?

It’s an occupational hazard I guess; write something, publish it, critics circle and feed. We all pretend not to care about reviews (after all, we all write for ourselves, don’t we people?) but all fall into the same trap that shows our true colours. Four or five star review? Shout it from the rooftops. One or two star? Well, clearly that reviewer is a nut-job / jealous / illiterate / having a bad day (select all that may apply).

I’ve tried to dissociate my emotions from ratings, telling myself everyone has an opinion, they’re entitled to it, and (until the revolution comes) they can voice that opinion. It’s worked, to a degree, but I make the mistake of reading what’s said and, as Seinfeld once protested to George, I just can’t un-see it. Although my hide’s thick enough to take it, one tiny comment stuck in my dinosaur brain festering away like a month old bottle of milk in the sun. “I don’t like Ish’s story because I don’t like made up words”.

What?

Made up words? I never knew the English language (or any other for that matter) was handed down by the almighty on stone tablets, immutable for all time (I think the French may hold to this myth, but I love them just the same). Everything is made up, everything comes from somewhere, somewhen, when somebody wanted to express themselves and managed to get further than ‘nnngghhh’, ‘urrrggh’, or a quick swipe across the back of the head with a club.

Take the latest discussion at Chez Soledad – zugzwang. I, in my usual style, announced that in the latest fight along the multilane parking lot laughingly described as a freeway, I had forced a particularly aggressive driver to zugzwang. Greeted by derisive laughter from my wife who ridiculed my imaginary word, I had the satisfaction (brief as it was) of informing her I had stolen said word from the world of chess, who in turn had stolen two words from the German language (Zug and Zwang), who in turn had lifted them from Proto-Germanic who, more than likely, appropriated them from some poor sod who originally created them as he exclaimed in triumph when blocking a fellow cave-dweller getting to the best hunting grounds. Made up? Of course. Valid? Absolutely. Beyond a critic’s remit to fault? I’m surprised you have to ask.

My point? Language in novels, particularly in fantasy and science fiction, is an absolutely wonderful, fertile ground to exercise your lexicographical prowess. Every single word you have uttered in your life, from ‘dada’ to ‘deconstructionism’ has been made up, so there’s no possible, plausible argument against ‘imaginary’ words. Enjoy yourself, flex your minds, create with abandon, but always with some consistency, some small shred of why, underneath it all.

So, I’ve purged the critique of ‘made up words’ from my system and, with renewed vigour, promised myself to create more. Want proof? Wait until Descent: Diaspora. And with it all, I’ve re-learned my lesson. Sticks and stones may break my bones (and probably more effectively as age and osteoporosis tighten their grip), but words are there to be disregarded.

And my reviewer and their comment?

I’ve a special copy of Sha’Kert I’m going to send them one day far, far in the future, one they’ll have absolutely no quibbles with; a cover, signed, and 275 blank pages. Critique that!