Authors, Authors Everywhere
Once upon a time, authors were myths to me. Actors, creators of any sort, they were all strange figures I knew entirely by their works. They weren't people. I couldn't really fathom them as such. I knew nothing about them save the little blurb on the cover and that they had been part of something I thought was amazing. They were a label I looked for to tell if I'd enjoy something and nothing more.
But the information age was upon us. Suddenly it was much easier to find out things about people. When I got to be a bit older I realized the people behind the books were not magical writing robots (well, I'm not so sure about Stephen King) and I became curious about them.
One of my paradigm-shifter books was Ender's Game. As that book had impacted me so much, I looked up information on Orson Scott Card.
I was shocked.
Orson Scott Card had opinions that appalled me. I became angry, how dare he, how could I ever have read books by somebody who thought things like that? But I was torn, because I did love the Ender's Game series. How could I deny the impact those books left on me? Eventually I realized that I could separate the creator and the work in my head—I did not have to take them as a single unit. I also came to accept (hooray for growing older and more sensible) that people are complex creatures made of a mess of horrible and wonderful and everything-in-between traits which do not necessarily cancel each other out.
Years later, in college, I met Orson Scott Card in person. He gave a wonderful talk (which did not feature the things we disagreed on), he signed my book and our lives went on. He was just another person, flaws and all. I decided it was best if I never looked too closely at the authors of the things I loved in case I found myself in conflict again.
But the spread of information and the social connectivity of the internet kept on growing. Now I can follow actors and writers on twitter, stalk their blogs and tumblrs, look up details of their lives on wikipedia, find gossip and photos without even trying. The author is everywhere. I can read Neil Gaiman discuss catching mice or Snoop Dogg talk about his wife or any other number of mundane, they-have-actual-lives things.
I've stuck with my policy of non-involvement. There are occasional exceptions--Ursula Vernon I discovered first through her blog and kept reading because she has the magical ability to make anything funny (even getting an IUD put in.) I'm happy with this decision. As much as so-and-so may be a lovely person, I think I'm better off not knowing in case they aren't. They're all human, and as humans they will fuck up. In a way they are still those nearly-anonymous entities of my childhood because I've put effort into keeping them that way.
I think it is one reason I have little desire to talk about myself in these public blogging times—I want people to care about my work, not me, and judge it solely based on its own merits. The me that matters is already in the work. The me that picks my nose and sings along to Gangnam Style doesn't, shouldn't matter. Should it?
Death of the author and the relationship between author and work are complicated enough I will make a separate post.
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