The Wilds Beyond the Gates

An Essay

I gaze at them, wandering freely in the fields outside. Out there, they run about, randomly it appears, haphazardly, though I am certain for sure their purpose is malicious. It has to be. They do evil things in that unexplored land out there, too stupid or foolish to understand why we must have rules. Why it is better inside the gates.

I laugh at them as they bang on the gates, claiming to have found some truth, some meaning to improve our lives here. We would not be so fooled. We ask them if they are willing to denounce their beliefs, to adhere to our way of things. If they agree, we allow them entry, but not before using all within our power to ensure compliance. What they bring? If we find it of use, we claim it our own. After all, how can we risk the disruption to our way of life from this interloper? The best among them would be celebrated; the others, simply allowed entry provided they remain quiet and obedient.

Those who do not comply, they will remain out there in the wilds, not to be let in.

And they are foolish for doing so.

As an indie writer, I certainly can see those in the mainstream publishing world act in the way I describe above — building their gated empire and only letting those who bow down and adhere to their rules and ways of that world inside. My own refusal to do so solidifies my banishment, how I will end up toiling in the wilds, credential-less, appearing simply as a mad-man running in the fields. Mocked, ridiculed, and shamed for my work, mattering little how good I am as a writer or how many people like my stories.

Counter-culture has always been a bit of who I am. Though I might present as a straight-laced, run-of-the-mill average guy, I seldom think in this way. Cultural norms must be pushed against, defiance must be made — subtly or outwardly, it matters not, only that the authorities, the experts, or whomever, must be questioned.

Albeit, much of it has always been performed quietly, giving further credence to those who might assume I play by the rules. And to some degree, they are correct. A lot of times, I just don’t have the energy to be so disagreeable.

In the writing world, my insistence to remain independent is the more obvious sign to my own defiance. Editors, agents, query letters, publishers — fuck them. I refuse the need, wondering why so many people run around trying to please these people. Admittedly, the appeal is somewhat understandable. Being the face of a huge display, my name emblazoned on the book, people running around talking about my stories, are all appealing visions.

It can be done as an indie, sure, but the trappings of being a star writer for a big named publishing house are exactly that: trap(ping)s. Little bits of candy the predators show us artists outside the gates. “Want a little bit of this? All it takes is to sell your soul, one story at a time.”

Hyperbolic, I know. Maybe the class I took back at Penn before dropping out effected me a little more than I want to admit, seeing everything more closely related to a bargain with the devil. The point here is in what are we sacrificing of ourselves for the opportunity to be within the safety of the gates. What are we sacrificing for some asshole behind a desk with no discernible talent or creative skill on their own to pat us on the head saying, “good writer. Here’s your treat!”? My disagreeable nature is showing.

My cynicism is slipping out.

Part of how I always looked at my writing was a bit like a rebel. I write what I feel I want to write even when everyone else says things have to be a certain way. I should be a contemporary fiction writer — or a science fiction writer — or a fantasy writer — or a action writer — or shut the hell up and I will write what I want. Yesterday it was a story about a woman grieving while standing at an ocean. Today it is a suicide mission aboard a starship. Tomorrow it’ll be a wizard helping a man with a small problem. What I write is what I feel like writing.

Yeah, I know there are a lot of people like me, and conversely many who like to write inside an insulated genre, the tropes like warm blankets. That’s fine; it’s just not me.

To say I would never sign onto some agent or publishing deal would be a lie. In reality, I don’t know my price. Maybe I have one I am not aware of. What I really want, though, is control and ownership over my work and my creative process — something so very few ever get unless they become so popular one cannot ignore it any longer.

Don’t get me wrong, I doubt with all seriousness I’ll ever get there. It’s not the point; the point is in the creative process. As long as I am able to write, as long as I have the drive to write, I will do so, regardless of the number of people who might read what I put to print.

Oh, how tempting they can make it sound to embrace the culture of mainstream writing, to be celebrated by those in control of the cultural milieu. It can be as subtle as the idea of “wanting to prove you are a good writer? It is through us you find out!” It could be the allure of public praise and accolades. Given how we tend to doubt ourselves, having those who may or may not be able to give us a useful opinion tempts us, especially if they can claim superiority.

Sometimes I need to remind myself these people are leeches. Parasites. That’s not to say they aren’t good vectors of judgment for quality (I would argue it is subjective at best), only that the very industry sucks off the tit of creative artists all while trying to convince us that we need them and not the other way around.

The image was taken years ago at a local Harry Potter festival. No idea who made that sign or where one might truly find it now. But we’re all wizards anyway, right?
Note: this is also cross-posted to Poetically Unlicensed on Substack.

Jeremy C Kester