My Vanity Book

(Visit www.wslingluff.com)

For a dedicated reader, a book is magical.  It provides escape, learning, exploration, expansion.  Good writers are as the gods themselves.  And, like relations with almost any god, readers soon think they could become writers.  “I can do that.”  They fail to realize that good writing is a craft, filled with tricks of the trade that must be painfully learned.  They do not realize that authors work hard.  Successful authors must target an audience in subject, content, and style.  But the reader, anxious to say what needs to be said, decides to do it “my way.”

Then, once having written something, long or short, about whatever, a reader thinks it is time for an audience, usually by publishing into the electronic or paper world.  That will establish a base of readers, maybe lead to a movie deal.  Sit back and watch the money roll in.  If nobody in the immediate surroundings thinks much of the piece _ or won’t even bother to look at it _ well, so what.  Pearls before swine, after all,  all that is needed is the right readers.  And if nobody can be found ever, there is still the “Emily Dickenson escape” that the future will recognize true worth.  It’s all harmless fun, providing happiness and hope to anyone on a budget.  Well, harmless enough unless the reader/writer gets too seriously monomaniacal and quits the job, leaves the family, escapes to a faraway isle, and drinks typing life away.

Today, as always, anything can be done for a fee.  Money will buy someone who can outline the book, or actually write the book, or provide workshops and evaluation of the book, or edit the book, or print, expose and try to sell the book.  Success in this scenario is true entrepreneurship _ the author merely coordinates all the pieces without actually doing much of anything else.  But the writer/author typically would rather be an artisan/artist and will fight to keep full integrity, regardless of consequence.  But, in any case, for not too much money there can be a professionally bound copy in hand, available on Amazon.

Cold reality is that there are too many books, too much entertainment, and the world is stuffed with writing and its cousins.  The past is available, the present is overflowing, and the only real sales are in narrow niches.  No matter how much energy is expended, the new work will not be the next Harry Potter.  Eventually, it is all a drain, for the artist merely wants to write some more.  And so the cycle begins again, at least for a while.  It’s all a lesson in the real world, far cheaper than a college course, about entrepreneurship.  The most successful entrepreneurs, of course, look at all the markets first and usually decide there is more to be gained in software design or providing food.

But the reader/writer nevertheless is left with a sense of pride and achievement.  There is an artifact in the world, tangible and unique.  And, at least in imagination, potentially longer lasting than the very individual who wrote it.  It is a romantic illusion to brighten life.  This world certainly needs more of those.

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My vanity book (the polite way to refer to it is as a “self-published work”) was simply an attempt at a family legacy.  Like everyone else, my children are extremely busy and do not have the time nor inclination to sit around and listen to what I think about everything.  So, I compose and make the thoughts more permanent and wait for a quieter time in their lives. 

Of course, it is simply a fantasy that such quieter times will ever come.  I did not read works by my parents or grandparents.  We are all now children of the world, we can pick our heritage at random from the internet to add to the environment provided by our peers.  After a few generations, we are really all one genetic structure, and in much less than that time we can change cultures and background.  Who we admire or hate, who we ignore, who we study diligently will follow our interests.  Our heritage, thus constructed, may even change over time as we change and become unique.  So to make a heritage legacy book is the height of _ what?  Not hubris, not presumption, not exactly futility.  Perhaps fantasy wish-fulfillment, but not particularly dangerous to anyone, nor hurting the present reality (which is, after all, what there truly is.)

I can dream of the ancient Roman, writing on a scroll or two, forgotten for thousands of years and then resurrected for a brief spell to glory, only to be forgotten once again.  My true sanity is that I recognize that dream for what it is.  Still, as an older person, some hope is always welcome, whether it involves lighting a candle or participating in social politics.  Or, for that matter, writing a vanity book.

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See Spot run. Isn’t this fun?

Writing, oh my.  Easy as pie.
I’ve got lots to say.  I’ll do it my way.
Once you can see, I’m sure you’ll agree.
I’ve published a book, so please take a look.
Cost me some jack, but I’ll get it back.
Waiting for sales, what if it fails?
The fault is not mine, pearls before swine.
In hundreds of years, they’ll be in tears,
To see what I wrote.  My ghost will gloat.
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In a way,  the concept of “you” in writing is a kind of reverse science fiction.  Instead of addressing someone in the present about what might happen in the future, you are presumed to exist in some kind of future, and writing is inevitably done from the present.  If an author understands that, it adds a very strange kind of twist to what is being said.

For one thing, in such a future (and here is science fiction itself) there may be very little writing, simply spoken language for communication, preserved and shared electronically.  So far, it is hard to see that happening, for so much electronic is in fact communicated through writing.  But such a time is, at least, conceivable.  Perhaps writing itself is some kind of short-term human phenomenon. 

Whoever you are, I hope you look at my vanity book sometime.  You can find it on Amazon, and it has enabled the look within feature so you can sample quite large chunks of it without spending anything more than your time.  It is a pleasant fantasy in my mind that there are many of you, whom I will never know, who will do so. 

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The Domination Era

Wayne Slingluff

 

The Domination Era is reverse science fiction _ describing ourselves to someone in the future. In retirement, I understand as much about the world and existence as I ever will, yet I realize how precarious my life (and perhaps civilization itself) has become.  My outlook may benefit or amuse or provoke, but it is a typical perspective from an ordinary life.

 

Individuals rarely have a chance to learn what their ancestors thought about the possibilities and contradictions of being human.  Hardly anyone has the time and energy to explore deeply our own beliefs and the facts which we consider true.  These essays provide a starting point for such meditations, or at least seeds for arguments in a café.
 
Potential readership would appear limited, since the target audience does not yet exist. But readers can contrast their own thoughts to mine, using a framework of (always debatable) facts about the universe as a guide for posing and discussing questions about meaning and existence and the contradictions of consciousness. 

 

Like most of us, I am absolutely unique, yet completely normal.  I have not discovered anything culturally significant, overcome great obstacles, nor led grand adventures.  I have tried to explain modern life, our concepts of science and culture, from the standpoint of an average person inhabiting this era of technology dominating everything.

 
I am an observer and chronicler of our environment.  The Domination Era is a work is a labor of love and hope, dedicated to a vanishing world that can still enchant us. 

 

The Domination Era is available at

 

My web site:    www.wslingluff.com

 

Or from Amazon (including a Kindle edition.)

Amazon includes a “look inside” feature that will allow browsing of the contents without purchase.

 

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Marcus Lucius put the finishing touches on his scroll.  He was quite proud of the work, a commentary on the ancient Greek commentaries on the ancient Egyptians.  He had hopes that that those in his circle would be properly amazed at his erudition and insight.

In a way, he thought, it’s magical that thoughts can be captured using magic marks on papyrus, or clay, or stone, or skin.  Later, even after death, the marks can be decoded by others and provide valuable and interesting information.  Even the illiterate gods have no such devices, immortal though they may be.  The he took the volumes to be filed at the local library with the countless others, and went about his daily routine.

The years passed, and Marcus Lucius was no more, the scroll simply resting in its dusty cool cellar as the Empire fell, barbarians trampled down the streets, and churches rose on the ruins.  A monk one day found the work, and because it happened to mention a certain precursor to Christianity, felt that it should be sent back to the alpine monastery for study.  So it was that it became (mostly) copied onto vellum by one of the patient artisans, artfully embellished with appropriate pictures and filigrees.

More time passed, and the monastery became a source of knowledge for the new generation, seeking a rebirth of knowledge after the passing of the dark age, and Marcus Lucius provided a reference to even older times, with even more ancient knowledge.  But the information mostly survived as footnotes and addendums in other hefty essays, soon printed and spread by the new printing technology.  It fell into obscurity and was only known to a few.

Even more time passed and the brand new age, filled with hope, wanted to compare their glory to that of the most glorious of history.  Marcus Lucius was rediscovered, and a few of his passages known to every schoolboy who had to learn Latin to be considered cultured.  The magic marks had done their job, and his thoughts were as real and complete as when he had first put them down, so long ago.

Yet all things pass, and a new generation had little need of such words, and no concern at all for the olden times, nor time for anything in a dead language.  Once again, oblivion became destiny.  And all reasonable people know oblivion is the true destiny of all that occurs in this world.

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Free copies arrived, handsomely bound, and ready to meet their excited (in my feverish imagination) audience.  Shoved into the hands of wife, children, acquaintances, where it was met with polite recognition, somewhat greater than admiration for a new hat, less than for a new piece of furniture.

From the time we are in third grade and write an essay on summer vacation, through employment when we write company manuals and project plans, and on into old age when we collect our wisdom for the ages, we are mostly convinced that what we do should be regarded, in the standard cliché, as “a heartbreaking work of staggering genius.”  Alas.  Other people in the world have their own cares, their own mission, and their own dreams.

Nevertheless, I’m glad I did this.  It is a kind of coda on a life slipping away rapidly, when newer memories fade, and thoughts run more slowly and raggedly.  That can be frightening, but believing there is something hard preserved in amber is a comfort.  And, of course, any project of this magnitude, requiring a few years of concentrated effort and organization is an achievement of which to be quite proud.

 

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