This is a continuation of my older site www.richard-weir.com, but oriented towards more theoretical, critical and ranty posts.
The other site will function as a professional “author platform” with links to the novel, published short stories as well as articles about the writing process and getting oneself published. It should be of interest to readers of fantastic tales, to up-and-coming writers, and to literary agents looking for a new, weird, splendid speculative fiction author to represent. (Subtlety is an art.)
But the ol’ bean bucket (a.k.a. the brain) needs a place to let the deeper thoughts go roaming and to question humanity’s fondness for utter BS. That’s here.
You’ve been warned, ok?
If you’re looking for light and fluffy diversions, well, the interweb has plenty of that. The exit is right over here by your back button. I’ll get your coat. Might we suggest something more along the lines of perezhilton.com or anything with the words “beiber” or “kanye” or “miley”?
One of my all time musical heroes is Mike Patton. I’ll never forget an interview of his where the interviewer (either genuinely confused about his subject, or willfully dismissive of the fact that he had one of the most eclectic performers in rock history sitting in front of him) asked Mike to specify his genre.
Mike looked at the interviewer with utter contempt, and responded: “That’s your job.”
Amen, brother Mike.
Artists (good ones, anyway) do not consciously seek to fall into a classification. They simply create. They leave others to the job of classifying things.
If you’ve ever introduced yourself as “a writer” to anyone, you know what comes next. We’ve all heard it. “Oh, I tried to write something once! I got about twenty pages in and trashed it.” Everyone on the planet, it seems, has dreamed of writing the next bestseller, and has even pursued it for a whole ten minutes.
My response to this is generally something in between blank astonishment and inarticulate rage.