Why did my first book fail?
I touched upon this question in this post and said there were way too many reasons to dissect. However, if I could boil it down to another one it’s this: I hadn’t formed my voice… yet. Void was my battle to create my voice. Or, the way I’ve come to see it, Void was…
…My Ummagumma
Storytime.
Pink Floyd’s first two studio albums, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and A Saucerful of Secrets, were led by Syd Barret. Because of Syd, both albums had their own sound, their own style, and their own voice right from the get-go.
Then, he left (fired? Pushed away? You decide. Nevertheless, drugs led to his downfall.)
Come to their third album, More, a soundtrack for a film of the same name, Pink Floyd were on their own. Well, not really. Why? Because the music was being made for someone else. And when you create art for someone else, it offers little room for absolute creative exploration. Room for the artist to dig deep. To challenge themselves so that they can discover their voice.
Ummagumma was that very challenge. With no Syd and no client to create art for, Pink Floyd finally had the opportunity to explore a new sound. Each member of the band had their time to shine, creating songs that were okay, good, and amazing—the roots that would set the foundation for the masterpieces that would follow: Meddle, The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals, and The Wall.
Void, my Ummagumma
Kill your darlings.
This is a piece of writing advice thrown around like a dirty whore in the streets of Tijuana. It means you ought to eliminate any part of your writing— characters, scenes, sentences, side plots— that, while you might love them, don't serve your story.
How did I, the great and original Diego Ornelas-Tapia, approach this advice for Void?
Me:
See, here’s the thing, ya’ll, Void was my first official book as a professional author. I wrote my first paragraph in July 2017, my first 1,000 words in February 2018, and I declared myself a professional author in March 2018, swearing I would finish this book no matter what.
Before those dates, I wrote as a hobbyist, barely finishing any books—novellas and short stories, really—or completing half-ass works I wasn’t truly happy with. The last story I wrote that truly made me happy was Lizard Man, which I created in fifth grade.
Fifth. Fucking. Grade.
I was a kid, man.
And as I grew into my teen years and young adulthood years, I shut the door on that kid, stripping him of the beauty and wonder that is storytelling.
Void opened the door that allowed that kid back into storytelling. And boy, oh, boy, I didn’t know it at the time, but I opened Pandora’s box because that kid needed to write his heart out. He needed to play with all the toys in the sandbox which is storytelling, damn the fucking rules.
I did.
I gave life to every character that called to my heart, wrote scenes and side plots that may not have served the main plot and I didn’t fucking care.
I don’t regret it.
And I’m not sorry.
In Defense of the New
In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the *new*. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau's famous motto, "Anyone can cook." But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist *can* come from *anywhere*. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau's, who is, in this critic's opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau's soon, hungry for more.
— Anton Ego
The world is unkind to new talent. New creations. It is often because the world expects greatness right from the get-go. But, my friends, my companions, my fellow monsieur’s and mademoiselle’s… greatness takes time.
Yes, yes, greatness is forged through the fires of failure and adversity, but, more than anything, it is forged through the unquenchable fire that is exploration. The will to fearlessly step into the unknown and discover what awaits to unlock that greatness.
I’ve unlocked it.
I know how that sounds, but, I say it not with arrogance but with the utmost and healthiest confidence. I thought I unlocked it with Void. I was wrong. However, I don’t regret the confidence I felt. You need that confidence in anything you’re striving to create, damn the level you’re at.
Nevertheless, it took me more than half a million words, two books, and two novellas—Void, To Tame a Dame, No Quarter, which was supposed to be a collaboration I ended up publishing on my own, and Beyond Desolation, a manuscript I won’t share because it isn’t original enough and it doesn’t abide by my voice—to unlock that greatness.
Final Words
Boy, oh, boy, it’s been a long and arduous journey as an author but… ya’ll.
YA’LL.
I cannot wait for you to read my upcoming stories.
I can’t wait for you to meet Sanse, a toxic and lower-class 22-year-old Mexican-American desperate to get his shit together by any means necessary.
Or Netzii, a brilliant but self-loathing middle-class 30-year-old Mexican-American struggling to see herself as the superhero that she is.
The day will come when you’ll meet them, my dears. And when you do, and if you’ve read Void, you’ll notice themes—echoes—of Void that I’ve improved in these new stories.
I can’t wait for that day to come. Soon.
But not yet.
Not yet.