“This is the publishing world, Cher,” Camha said when I kept circling the issue of marketing, telling her how much I hated it and how much I didn’t think it was useful. She had asked me to come up with a rough “marketing strategy” to include in my book proposal, as well as a “target audience”, both of which remain stupefying. How could I possibly look at my art and writing in this way? I can hardly predict what I will be doing next year (although at the moment it’s two years), even now as I approach my mid-thirties, and have, since I came of age—although not on purpose—lived my life on a day-to-day basis, never foreseeing a “future” yet always tumbling into one. Not a hopeless existence, mind you—it’s merely another way of coping with a dreadful world I never had any consent to be born into; doing so ironically keeps me interested and alive. I recognise that living like this is somewhat a privilege—I don’t have to perform care duties for a child, disabled lover or ageing parent. If I have $20 left in my bank account I needn’t consider how it will affect someone else who depends on me.
“Yeah,” I deadpanned. “Unfortunately we do live in a society.” We shared a hearty laugh. As mentioned in my last two newsletters, there are now many new questions and internal conflicts I am only just starting to grapple with, especially as I increasingly have to learn to navigate the cesspool that is the publishing industry. I’m not going to pretend that institutional success is unimportant to me, because it affects me financially, intellectually and emotionally (such as the fact of grants giving me the resources to be able to actually finish my book, but also to spend time researching, and fucking around writing this newsletter you are now reading). But what remains most rewarding is when something I’ve written continues to feel generative and intellectually stimulating in a way that connects with my friends and the wider punk/DIY community, and finally with other artists I respect for their politics and ethics. As a non-institutionalised, working-class artist, I’m afraid that the deeper I go into the art and publishing worlds, certain stakes feel higher in that failure can feel like failing myself, failing the communities I participate in (at least in the loosest sense), or failing someone I respect. It is, I suppose, the tightrope between what is considered “selling out” (i.e., diluting my work for the sake of popularity and visibility) and making art that is accessible, inspiring and sincere.
I’ve been asking due-to-be-published or already-published friends if they will show me their book proposals so I can check to see if I’m on the right track, but a few have said they’ve either sold their book off the back of a chapter outline, or had been approached directly by one publisher whom they decided to sign with from the get-go. “Maybe I’m trying way too hard,” I told one, but I’m not gonna lie: I would like a reasonable advance, even if I never write for a living again. I don’t think it serves anyone well if I were to fake humility just to appear as if I’m a “good person”, whatever the fuck that means. It’s not that I’m trying to set up a safety net (although of course that’ll be nice); it’s more a massive fuck you to all the people who believed I couldn’t get here, and only because I didn’t play by their ridiculous rules. Many writers like to joke that writing is often done out of horniness and/or spite, but I think it should be socially acceptable to admit what you’re driven by, otherwise what’s the point of living? It doesn’t have to be anything noble or grand or great, just an impetus that will propel you forward in the tiniest of ways. As such I think spite is a healthy emotion—it helps you to process how you feel about others, what you really desire and insulates you from artistic and personal complacency. In my very humble opinion, it’s far better than “stuplimity”, “zanyness” or “cuteness” (for example, per one of my theory mothers Sianne Ngai), all of which are the affective cogs that power the engine of neoliberalism even as they seem to work in opposition to it, at least to the uncritical gaze.
But it’s a strange feeling in this context, to be somewhat considered an “outsider artist” perching delicately on the periphery of the centre-left mainstream. What if it’s affirmative action? What if it’s the result of “diversity” porn? What if someone else actually deserved it more, but due to the many systemic biases that swirl around us we end up being pitted against each other? That doesn’t sound like hyperbole or neuroticism at all; I’m convinced that is often the case and perhaps this is incorrectly understood as “impostor syndrome”. But I won’t know for sure because many people would rather choose not to be straight-shooting. I can only intuit, observe, guess and share.
Regardless, artists are grandiose creatures. It doesn’t matter how you go about it: whether you play in a band casually, whether you post your artwork on Instagram, whether you’re a tattooist, whether you exhibit large-scale works in renowned galleries, whether you self-publish a zine or whether you have three novels under your belt. It takes a certain kind of shamelessness and some narcissism to be able to go, “Hey, I made or am making this thing and I want you to pay attention to it.” Perhaps the difference between a shill and an agitator is the aim: what do you want to communicate and how will you execute it such that what you make is not merely a cultural product, but one that actually works towards a different future? Of course, I don’t deny that this itself could be part of an aestheticised delusion, but I never want to lose sight of this question.
Recently, I interviewed two rather different artists but who create from the same place, André Dao and Andrew Brooks, in my role as editor at Liminal. Incidentally they each evinced similar thoughts—the former expressed the hope of using his privileges and power to create an archive that “might travel to other sites and other times, and so contribute to the futures we do want”, while the latter said that he prioritises care and learning in his work, which is “a commitment to find[ing] ways to sustain each other in the face of violence and inequity, and as we struggle toward different futures.” These sentiments remind me of the friends and lovers I’ve grown with or gotten to know, whether those here or elsewhere, who are now embarking on personal, artistic and political projects and self-making that are clearly derived from the radical and alternative politics we were lucky to be exposed to in young adulthood. As in the previously-mentioned “chaos magick of knowledge”, what used to be Anarchism 101, Feminism 101 or other types of surface-level sloganeering has now opened up many more avenues to discover for ourselves how we can indeed use these skills and knowledges to be able to enact more comforting possibilities for ourselves and for those around us. But it’s a trajectory you must desire and invest in, not one you think you ought to do or will make you look good. Maybe people are obsessed with moralism and not materialism, which is not always the same thing.
I remember a conversation I had last year with A, a musician friend, where we were both sitting in my lounge room daydreaming about being able to make a living just honing our craft in our later years. “Wouldn’t it be amazing?” I said, “You can really lean into risk, do all the stuff you’ve always wanted to experiment with. Get real wild, you know?” He looked at me quizzically. “Um, no way dude. For me it just means I can play the same shit over and over and people are going to lap it up no matter what.” This was when I realised there are two kinds of artistic intention; not that either is inherently “right” or “wrong”, “better” or “worse”—just two perspectives.
I’m nearly at the end of my time with Camha now, at least on an “official” level. During this time she has given me invaluable feedback on two (unpublished) longform essays that will make up part of my manuscript. One explores the idea of “authenticity” (whether through food, social media identities and/or diasporic identities more broadly, as well as the existential tension(s) that comes with performance in everyday life) and the other delves into labour, work, anti-work, class and capital, using my 20-year history of so-called “unskilled” labour as a springboard. These have been very difficult essays to write, not only because they are significantly longer than what I’m used to, but especially as I realise that I’ve been thinking about these subjects for at least the last four years; to sift out the noise from the mess is a huge undertaking. There is also some semblance of “writer’s block”, in the sense that I’ll have to do a bit more reading, thinking and living before I’m able to arrive at an intellectual and emotional space that I’m satisfied with.
But it has been intriguing learning more about the ins and outs of the book world, at least as arsenal for my mental rolodex. I’m not sure what’s next, but I guess I’ll find out when it’s time to write the next newsletter.
Before you close this window…
I published another essay recently, this time a piece of ficto-criticism on the alt-lit author Tao Lin and his pre-2014 body of work, which I used to admire but no longer do. You don’t have to be familiar with Tao Lin or his work to read this—it’s really about how some cultural workers engage in the act of self-mythology in service of capital, and how tastes shift over time as we learn more about who we are and what we want. Read it at the Liminal Review of Books here, amongst a wonderful collection of criticism, of which I also helped edit.
A rare Pokémon appears! I’ll be speaking at two in-person events in the next fortnight, if nothing untoward happens. If you’re based in Naarm/Melbourne, come through and say hello.
11 Dec (Sat), 4-5PM, Australian Centre for Contemporary Art – Premiere screening of DESTINY, a film by the feminist artist collective Aphids, of which I also had the pleasure of performing in. I will be speaking on a panel—about gig work and what that means in relation to labour and bodies—with lead artist and director Eugenia Lim, curator Amelia Wallin and fellow worker-performer Wasay Abdul. Book your (free) tickets here.
14 Dec (Tues), 5-8PM, Collingwood Yards – Launch of WORKBOOK, a booklet put together by Hằng/Xen Nhà and Lana Nguyen for disorganising, a project facilitated by Liquid Architecture, Bus Projects and West Space. I will be reading from my essay ‘By Signalling Nothing I Remain Opaque’ (which you can read in full here if you’ve yet to do so; I realise I mislinked it in the last newsletter—thanks MB for pointing that out), on a line-up with fellow artists Timmah Ball and Tiyan Baker who also contributed to the project.
More info here.