Inklings of 2024

I had an alarming conversation today.

A friend and former pupil of mine is a writer, who publishes regularly on a site other than this one. My friend complained of the recent proliferation of rumor and gossip and inuendo suggesting that the site plays host to people with dangerous, unsavory ideas. Like a mad old nerd, I pointed out that, as a writer, my friend should simply take this opportunity to do some writing, on the site, about the problem and how best to resolve it. My friend balked, claiming that undertakings of that kind are above his or her or their pay grade.

This was profoundly disturbing to me, and I believe I have sorted out why that is the case. I have spent a lot of time reading and teaching the works of distinguished writers, from Swift to Voltaire to Wollstonecraft to Goethe to Orwell. All seem to concur that there is something fundamentally dehumanizing and obtuse, even evil, about censorship—especially when that censorship is undertaken by humans under the spell of a sort of misguided moral righteousness. They are of one mind with respect to the extent to which the price of liberty is exposure to dangerous, even monstrous ideas, as well as oceans of terrible writing. In order to prove ourselves worthy of liberty, of the freedom to think and to say and to do what we deem to be optimal in a given context, we must have a maximally wide range of possible options, and then choose among them based upon the contents of our own consciousness. Some will make foolish or perilous or destructive choices. It is then up to the rest of us to persuade them—not to force or cajole or deceive or manipulate them, mind you—to choose a better option. That will not always work, but it will always preserve the liberty of both parties.

One of the best ways of persuading other people is writing.

Therefore, in 2024, I would like to do everything I possibly can, by writing, to make writing for this site, and indeed, being human at this moment in the history of our strange species and its beleaguered home, more tolerable. I think it is clear that the status quo is suboptimal. There is gossip online about this site being problematic in various ways. As a member, it is therefore incumbent upon me to show that this gossip is groundless. I will not fake anything. I will not delegate the terribly important project in which all writers are engaged to artificial intelligence (the point is to cultivate and refine organic, natural intelligence, after all). I will rely upon artificial intelligence to generate illustrations. I do not wish to become an artist of that kind. I will not bore and insult other writers with marketing, advertising or other acerebral bavardage. I will not try to appear to be anyone I am not. I will write, as well as I possibly can, in as many modes and styles and forms as I am able, with the aforementioned aspiration ever and always in mind. My hope is that others might be moved to do so as well, but it is merely hope.

1. How has the past year on Vocal shaped your goals for this year?

Radically, in the original sense, i.e., to the root. Just before I joined Vocal, I discovered that part of the reason I found the pandemic especially painful and difficult to endure was because I am ill. My time is short. Of course, this is a universal truth. We are all mortal creatures. But there is a dramatic difference between knowing that this is the case and acting like it. Tolstoy is awfully good at driving this point home. It is natural to become absorbed in the minutiae of our ordinary everydayness, or in the pursuit of some dream unrelated thereto, such that we forget that our time is limited, and that everything we do and say and think ought to reflect that. As it turns out, procrastination is almost immoral, for it postpones our flourishing.

So, having confined myself mostly to lecturing and writing tedious scholarly articles and essays, I decided to begin writing in alien and intimidating ways, for other writers. I have discovered that this can allow one to hone one’s writing, which is my goal. A number of other writers seem to like what I am doing, though it is clear that how I am doing it needs refinement. I am committed to trying to become the most excellent writer a peculiar creature like myself can be, in order to make human existence more tolerable. Not perfect, mind you. Just more tolerable.

After all, when Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich finally accepts that he has wasted his life in the pursuit of wealth and prestige, mitigating the suffering of others is his impulse as he lies dying. I am frustrated that I cannot quote the Russian original. One of the best parts of my job is that it allows me to teach world literature in translation. Here is a translation by L. and A. Maude of the relevant lines of The Death of Ivan Ilyich:

And suddenly it grew clear to him that what had been oppressing him and would not leave him was all dropping away at once from two sides, from ten sides, and from all sides. He was sorry for them, he must act so as not to hurt them: release them and free himself from these sufferings. “How good and how simple!” he thought. “And the pain?” he asked himself. “What has become of it? Where are you, pain?”

Rather than perseverate upon the wretchedness of his own suffering, the vice and folly that have led him to this point or the apparent indifference of others or their pettiness and dehumanization of him as a mere “patient,” he realizes that the optimal way to proceed is simply to act so as not to hurt them and release them and himself from suffering, insofar as he can in his own, idiosyncratic, all-too-human way.

That sounds like a plan to me. I’d simply like to do it by writing. So far, it seems to be going swimmingly. I’m slowly improving. I am grateful for that.

2. What genres or writing forms do you wish to explore?

All of them. These are various ways of doing what I aspire to do, and every attempt to do it in a new way improves my capacity to do it in any way. Some of my experiments, in response to particular challenges, have been ghastly failures. I think that’s marvelous. I am adept at writing in some ways and clearly inept at writing in others, but I would not know that had I succumbed to fear and doubt and not tried. I will never write another acrostic. My premises for the whodunnit were both shit. I learned a great deal from both catastrophes. Beckett was absolutely right. The idea is to “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” I will not publish everything, but I will try everything.

3. What skills do you want to hone?

All of them. I want to create natural, engrossing, formally immaculate dialogue. I want to describe the things I imagine as if they were real and the things that are real in a way ordinarily reserved for what’s imaginary, i.e., making something of nothing. I want to appeal to reason, character, ethics and emotion persuasively. I want plot to be as invisible and inevitable as destiny. I want to drive out adverbs with a pitchfork. I will fail in every case. Repeatedly. That’s the idea.

4. How often will you write?

Every, bloody day. I do not know how many I have left. See above.

5. How often will you read other creators' work?

Ibid

6. Who will you collaborate/connect with on Vocal?

With everyone who is interested. I have been implausibly fortunate in this regard: many talented, intelligent, articulate, madly inventive and stylish writers have responded to my work in some form or fashion and they have been warmly receptive to my responses to their work. I think that is one of the most obvious reasons to keep this community alive, and to shield it from idiots. The moderators must be awfully busy. This community is what its members make it. Granted, there are rules and parameters, but there is an enormous zone of liberty. We will determine the quality of the experience of those in that zone with our own character and conduct as its members. It’s like any community in that sense.

7. How will you support other creators?

In every way readily available to me. I am not wealthy, but I am an avid reader and I am committed to becoming a more excellent writer and helping others to do so. Reading terrible writing increases suffering. Being insulted or patronized or mollycoddled does so too. Reading skillful, insightful writing reduces suffering. Reading beautiful writing briefly relieves suffering almost completely. I am convinced that Tolstoy’s character had it right: if I can make your existence more tolerable, I will. I think that will make mine more tolerable in turn. Odd, how that seems like such a universal theme.

8. How will Vocal challenges help shape your creative journey?

Quite profoundly, as it turns out. Again, I will try everything. Confessing all of the weaknesses of my first foray into writing fantasy was painful, but necessary and enlightening. Limericks still bore me. I have a great deal to learn.

9. Is there a specific piece you want to finish or work on?

The success of “Bathtub Jinn” gave me the impression that magical realism is something I ought to try my hand at again. In fact, a short story I have been working on in that regard seems ready to become a novel, but I’ll show you what I’ve got soon and see what you make of it. It seems to be taking a filthy turn, to be perfectly candid. I'm not sure what to make of that. I think I know a smooth writer who may have some special insight in this regard. Prose poems seem to be working out well, too.

10. What do you want your impact to be on Vocal?

This is a splendid, final prompt because it shifts my attention back to that alarming conversation I mentioned at the outset. We can complain, spread gossip and rumor, abandon the whole enterprise, or recognize that this is a community of writers. Its members ought to protect the best parts of it and change the parts of it that seem most in need of alteration, insofar as they are able to do so. I want to become a more excellent writer, to rehearse the essential themes I have been tediously returning to once more, and reduce the suffering of others who have the same end, goal or purpose before them.

As a member of this community, I must do with the liberty it grants me what is most excellent in my judgment, and seek to persuade others to do so, too. To a remarkable degree, the nature of our experience as members of this community is subject to change. Striving to become excellent writers, and to muster everything we can to aid others in doing so, will increase the quality of this experience for all. Hasn’t your experience in this community confirmed that? Mine certainly has, and I have many to thank for that who know perfectly well who they are.

It is worth mentioning that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien belonged to a laughably tiny community of this kind, dubbed “The Inklings,” at Oxford, for almost two decades. Inevitably, people will begin to wonder and worry about the particulars. They’re neatly summarized here:

Just consider how widely read and culturally influential those two authors became and remain. Joining a community of writers appears to be a very promising idea, no? If we do what we can to make this community maximally conducive to the flourishing of writers, suffering will be markedly reduced, at the very least. Astonishing geniuses could emerge. Isn't it worth trying?

My anguish during the aforementioned conversation turned out to be revulsion at the cowardly cynicism of my interlocutor’s claim that the problems with the community to which my interlocutor belongs are “above [my interlocutor’s] pay grade.” I think that’s nonsense. I understand why it is popular nonsense (that’s why verbal false limbs and cliches are so dreadful—they catch on) but I reject it. A community becomes what the thoughts and words and deeds of its members allow it to become. I don’t have time to fool around.

Let us write together, while we can.