Nobody Reads This Page: “Creative Conundrum”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Publishers are notoriously slothful about numbers, unless they’re attached to dollar signs – unlike journalists, quarterbacks, and felony criminal defendants who tend to be keenly aware of numbers at all times.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

As a teenager, I used to ponder the growing lethargy of my father with a measure of befuddlement and dissatisfaction. While in his 50s, I noted that he would sometimes choose to simply ‘tune out’ from family activities. With his oversized, Pyrex measuring cup of coffee, he would sit by a radio tuned to a public station, which offered forms of Classical, Jazz, or Folk music no longer top of mind for fans of popular culture. While listening, he would read a book from his extensive library, or perhaps enjoy a new acquisition found at a thrift store or yard sale. His tastes varied greatly, from theology, to history, to science fiction, so I never knew what to expect. But regardless of the subject matter at hand, this quiet ritual seemed to ease the fatigue which was visible on his face. I reckoned that somehow, the journey of being a son, husband, brother, uncle, parent, grandfather, pastor, and mentor, had sapped him of the inner glow associated with being alive.

 

Only later would I understand that his fatigue was born of action, not weakness. Being busy had given him insight and inner strength. Yet also caused his bones to ache and his body to sometimes seek the comfort of a few moments spent in restful repose.

 

Such thoughts came to mind recently when an esteemed friend spoke about having published a series of books written for children. He confessed taking pride about this status as someone who had their work delivered by a traditional firm, with the skillful assistance of others providing illustrations to accompany the stories, and editing services. Distribution, marketing, and a yield of royalty payments were all handled as part of this contractual agreement. Almost as an afterthought, he included a caveat that this belief in being validated by good fortune was in no way intended as a knock against others who had vended their work through some alternate means. Such as a print-for-hire service, which gives creative producers a range of choices available at an affordable cost.

 

I celebrated this joyful memory with my friend in real time, of course. But later, remembered being singled out for criticism by some in my circle, for using a self-publisher such as Amazon, to create physical copies from my own catalog. These individual naysayers reckoned that because I had not signed a conventional agreement to have my manuscripts placed before the public eye, that it was an admission of illegitimacy. That view seemed to mesh with others who asked a familiar question, if I ever became bold enough to confess being an author of books in general conversations.

 

“ARE YA MAKIN’ ANY MONEY AT THAT, KIDDO?”

 

My one match with a regular printing company had aroused frustration when I saw my items being marketed worldwide, even inexplicably in far-flung venues like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While I could not chase them down for figures on what had been earned. I became stymied by this limited success, under contract and bound to accept my predicament.

 

While living in New York State, I learned the French expression, ‘L’art pour l’art.’ Which roughly translates to the idea that art should exist for its own sake. Or as friends around Cornell University used to say, the dedication to ‘Make art for art’s sake.’ Therefore, the belief that somehow any sort of pursuit associated with the craft, be it painting, drawing, designing, acting, writing, or playing music, is simply a commercial exercise diminishes the overall experience. It is a concept rooted in faith, one might observe. A view of humanity founded on our worth as demonstrated by what we may contribute to the greater continuum.

 

Simply getting a regular stipend for hours worked feels too much like punching a time clock, to this writer. But it is of course, no more than a single opinion among many others.

 

When one of my nephews, who is highly educated and bright, made this common observation about ‘real’ volumes being made by a recognized publishing institution, I directed him to consider the book section at our local Dollar Tree. Every title on their shelves had been originally produced by one of those notable firms. And were now being sold for a mere pittance, in the aftermath. I asked if those products, now being dumped for a sum far below their market value, could still be considered valid? He had no answer for this riddle, but refused to budge from the assumption that having a formal contract in place gave validity to an author.

 

While puzzling over this pervasive viewpoint, I thought about other areas of artistry and their unique standards of worth. Were independent filmmakers somehow bastard visionaries? Or bands without their signatures on paperwork with a major label, crippled and insignificant? Perhaps poets and urban performers were also without merit, despite their creative zeal? This argument was easy to make, but more difficult to defend, in hindsight. What standards truly define legitimacy? And in the case of artistic endeavors, what right does anyone have to judge the impact of a specific individual, or their output? If indeed, it is a matter of numbers, then has everyone who missed on being popular with the teeming masses failed in their personal pursuit of glory?

 

The elder member of my bloodline had been able to publish his Biblical work via College Press in Joplin, Missouri. So for him, such wonder over the value of written manuscripts did not exist. But for me, as a veteran of newspapers and magazines, with much enthusiasm over doing my own covers, layout, and editing, the situation was more complex. I liked being in charge, directly. And, the benefits were increased, as a yield of that hands-on approach. Not only in financial terms, but also, as a chance to hone and develop my managerial skills.

 

As a younger man, I could work myself into a tizzy over such perplexing queries. Often, with a headache and sour stomach occurring as my reward. Yet with this current incident of uncertainty arising, I realized that my sire, in yonder days, had found the right solution to having his perceptions challenged.

 

He simply immersed himself in the pleasures of being present and aware.

 

Papa R. D. would pour a mug of coffee, turn on his AM/FM receiver, and find some reading material. From that point in the day, forward, everything else would cease to be a bother. In my own manner, I have adapted that methodology to serve well, at my own household by Lake Erie.

 

Being busy at the desk is all that I crave.