Excuse Me, I'm Interested in Selling Out

Selling out, man. It's like, the worst, you know?

Right now, it's not a problem for me. Somebody whose total sales in his career probably amount to a few hundred units is more concerned with selling than selling out. But the thought arises when I daydream about success: What if I was suddenly in a position to sell out? What if people would write me cheques just to put my name on something? Would I do it?

Ask my wife, and she'd take a hard-nosed business perspective on it. Of course, take the cheque, idiot!

Me? I'm not so sure. I like the idea of having a catalogue free of derivative work, free of "collaborations," which are actually ghost-written crap. "Artistic Integrity" and all that.

I know what you're thinking. Awfully presumptuous for a self-published author nobody has ever heard of. Sounds like somebody wants to have a problem. You're not entirely wrong. It all comes down to the question: If you could be U2, wouldn't you?

My friends who are U2 fans might want to turn away. I'm going to be cruel.

Once upon a time, U2 mattered. From 1977 to 1991, they were one of the most innovative and groundbreaking bands in the world. I loved them, and so did a hell of a lot of other people. They mattered.

But after Achtung Baby, they started to lose their mojo. In my opinion, they became the latest incarnation of the Rolling Stones: increasingly irrelevant geezers who do nothing but fill stadiums and add zeroes to their bank accounts.

Am I jealous? Damn right. But they still suck. The worst part of U2's continuing success is that their stadium crowds are full of people who could be listening to Spoon, The Shins, or The New Pornographers, bands still putting out relevant and groundbreaking music. But instead, they listen to the same music they were listening to when they were twelve. "Ooh, I think they're playing A Kind of Homecoming! Ooh!"

I guess what I am saying is that, while great art does not have a shelf life, the artists who produce it perhaps do. Once they continue on past this point, they damage their legacy.

What this shelf life is depends on the artist and the medium. Picasso never became irrelevant. Neither has Cormac McCarthy, who by now is in his mid-eighties. Rock and Roll is perhaps less forgiving. It depends on youth and rebellion, to a certain extent, and that is ill-reflected by men with sagging jowls driving Jaguars.

Will Exile on Main Street become any less great because Mick Jagger is still prancing about in his seventies like a senile lemur? I don't know. Maybe not. But I can't listen to their music now without thinking of what they've become.

And this brings me to my next-door neighbour on internet searches: Mr James Patterson.

The creator of Alex Cross built a following largely on the strength of his creation. He's written a lot of other stuff, but Alex Cross is what he's known for, and my hat is off to him for that. He's also one hell of a generous man, giving millions over the years to charity. So, this isn't "James Patterson Is The Devil," okay?

Now the U2 fans, if they're still here, are saying "What about Bono and all his good deeds"?" Okay, okay, fine.

There are a couple of problems with the other Mr Patterson, though. One is his sheer presence in the marketplace. According to Wikipedia, one in every seventeen hardcover novels sold in the United States is written by him (or has his name on it, more on that later). Remember all those U2 fans who could be listening to something else? How about their reading habits? The big writers feed the big publishers' appetite for guaranteed sales. And Patterson is the biggest of them all. It's easy to pick up his latest effort at Hudson News while you're waiting to fly to LA. Easier than going to Chapters and looking for someone new with new ideas to match.

His popularity is not his fault, of course. But what is egregious are his many "collaborations," in which by his own admission, he provides the plot, and lets others do the writing. This always appears on the book cover thusly:

JAMES PATTERSON

(with Tom Schmuckberg)

In short, James Patterson has sold out. Even Stephen King says so.

Also: I want to be James Patterson. But I hope I never get the chance to be that big, honestly. I'd settle for a lower level of sell-out. Like the minor crimes committed by Ian Rankin, who keeps Inspector Rebus alive to the point where it's almost assisted living time.

Regardless of what level of sell-out I decide to become, I really hope I get the chance to make that decision. Being a poor writer with integrity seems great. Until it's time to pay the bills.