(For your reference: HWA article by Lisa Morton: “Ten Questions To Know If You’re A Pro.” This flowchart is my answer to the sentiments posed there.)

“You can’t force art.”

Google that phrase, you’ll get over 20,000 hits.

Many of them seem to agree with the notion that, indeed, you can’t force art.

Can’t do it. Can’t force art, creativity, innovation, invention.

To which I say a strongly-worded:

POPPYCOCK!

BALDERDASH.

HORSESHIT IN A 7-11 64 OUNCE THIRST ABORTER SODA CUP.

I’ll posit that not only can you force art, but you in fact must force art.

Because art is not a magical power. Art is a result. It is a consequence of our actions, and the very nature of an action is that it is something we forced ourselves to do.

(One wonders if this is where the notion of a hack comes from. I quite like that verb, actually — to hack. Hacking through underbrush. Hacking apart a chair. Hacking up a hairball!)

Now, this phrase, this notion, this bewildering admonishment — “you can’t force art” — seems to share two possible meanings depending on the intent of the phrase-utterer.

The one utterance seems to mean, “Well, of course you make art, but when it feels like you’re really forcing it — you know, like, trying to cram a shoe into a pasta-maker or a goat into an elephant or a barrel cactus up your own ass — then you’re not likely to create art at all.”

The apparent definition of the second utterance is a far less reasonable: “ART JUST HAPPENS. We are all connected by a mystical muse-based frequency and sometimes the metal fillings in our teeth tune us into that radio station of raw inspiration and that’s how art happens — we are giant open orifices waiting for the voodoo ejaculation of the Muse’s artful seed.”

Let’s tackle each of these in turn.

The first notion makes sense. It sounds right. Every author and surely every artist hits a point during the act of creation where it feels like the torch is guttering. The campfire’s gone dark for the night. So, you think, “I could just quit for the day. Go have a Pepsi and some animal crackers and watch some TV, wash some dishes, masturbate to the 2014 Ikea catalog (nggh Gronkulla!), go to bed and recharge these here art batteries.” And this is generally sensible because obviously you have to quit the day’s work at some point. Working for 12 hours straight on a single thing may lead to art, but it’s just as likely it’ll lead to you inking a baffling manifesto on your skin in your own waste (“MY BODY IS THE TEXT BEHOLD MY SKINRIDER’S EPIPHANY”).

But there’s also a thing that happens where you might, using this reasonable-sounding excuse of not forcing it, quit your day a bit early. Before your minimum efforts are even complete. Example: just the other day I was crawling through my word count the way a starving man crawls through a muddy ditch to get to a Dorito he imagined at the end. It was just a boggy fucking slog. Most days for me are a fairly nice clip to 2000 words, and then the next 1000 take more time and require more teeth-gritting and sphincter-clenching, but this day just felt like I was trapped, like each sentence written was the drag of a rusty cheese grater across my wrist to free the hand pinned underneath a fallen soda machine.

I got to 1500 hundred words and I said, FUCK THIS NOISE, then I may have yelled YOLO and violently cleared everything off the top of my desk. And the thought that went through my head was, basically, don’t force it. The other days have been good. Ease off the stick, Earnhardt, Jr, tomorrow will be better. The story will be waiting.

But also this little pokey pointy stick kept jabbing my brain-kitten, thus making said kitten hiss and spit. So I stopped and said, okay, I always always always get my 2000 words — it’s a point of fucking pride here so I’ll squeeze the blood from this brick and see if I can’t wring out another fuck-smeared shit-box full of a likely-worthless 500 words. Words I figured I’d throw away.

And I did it. Miserably. Five hundred words is usually easy for me to write (this post is already over that). This felt like proctology with a pair of soup ladles.

I knew I’d probably scrap those words.

But I went back and read them. And you know what?

They don’t read like they were the result of exploratory rectal surgery.

They don’t read as if they were the peed-out kidney stones they felt like at the time.

They are, in fact, pretty damn solid.

As solid — if not moreso — than the words that seemed to fall out of me on “good” writing days.

I forced it. It hurt. And yet, those words still work.

Now, to the second idea, that art is a lightbulb in our heads connected to a switch that we do not control, well. You can probably guess my response. It probably involves the word “poop” and “noise” placed adjacent to one another and possibly yelled whilst flailing.

What happens in the dark of your mind — that sudden surge of inspiration! — is not actually art in the same way that a struck match is not actually a bonfire. You have to do something with it. You have to have agency. You must claim a course of action. You gotta throw the match, motherfucker. Creativity is worthless without the act of creation that follows it: otherwise all you’re doing is daydreaming into the void, giving a gift of inspiration to whatever mad elder gods roil and coil in the deepest darkest basket of far-flung ultradimensional space.

Art doesn’t just happen.

Art is made.

We are makers! We are doers!

So go make! Go do!

Embrace the desire to create. Give life and love and opportunity to the ephemeral shapes and shadows your imagination has gifted to your mind.

Art is surgery. It is extracting the phantoms of your imagination and packing them with meat and bone and blood so that they get up from the slab that is the screen of your word processor or your notebook — or your canvas or your stage or your camera lens.

You can’t force art?

Bullshit. Can too.

Sometimes, you gotta.

If you think that makes me a hack and not an artist, fuck it. I’m a hack.

But I’m a hack who’s making art, and you’re just an artist who can’t hack it.

*drops mic*

*is trampled by a startled elephant with a goat hanging out of its butt*

(More wallpapers below:)

New review for UtES just came in from Publisher’s Weekly!

“Adult author Wendig (The Blue Blazes) launches the dystopian Heartland trilogy featuring a group of teenage scavengers at odds with an oppressive government that dwells in luxury up in the sky. Cael McAvoy, leader of the Big Sky Scavengers, is dealt a severe setback when a rival crew led by the mayor’s son sabotages his land-boat, which he needs to safely navigate the hostile fields of genetically modified corn that hold the Heartland in a stranglehold. When he discovers a secret garden of illegal fruits and vegetables, he sees a chance to get ahead by harvesting and selling them. Instead, he and his friends are drawn into a bloody fight for survival, which turns into open rebellion. Wendig conjures up an atmospheric and brutal world full of pollen storms, aggressive plants, and terrifying tumors, and populates it with memorable characters, while withholding enough information about the Empyreans to maintain intrigue. This strong first installment rises above the usual dystopian fare thanks to Wendig’s knack for disturbing imagery and scorching prose. Ages 12–up. Agent: Stacia Decker, Donald Maass Literary Agency. (July)”

I’m told the book has been showing up as an advertisement on folks’ Kindles, too — as both a lock screen and a screensaver feature, so that’s pretty rad. The book is doing very well, as I understand it — it’s been bouncing around the Top 10 at Amazon for Science-Fiction Adventure and Dystopian (YA), putting the book in really wonderful company. So, thanks to everyone who has been supporting the book and picking it up and telling others about it.

Exciting times, giving me a nice boost when I’m about to go into editing the second book in the series, BLIGHTBORN. (That book is nearly twice as book and thrice as crazy as the first.)

Oh, and if you want to see my “big idea” behind the book — I’m over at Scalzi’s Whatever this week chatting about the book, its origins (as a joke!) and how food politics relates to teens.

Last week, we crowdsourced your favorite dystopian reads.

This week, let’s talk horror.

We’ll keep it broad this time around — no subgenres, just the entire blanket category of what you consider “horror fiction.” Poll the choir of brain cells and ask yourself: what are your top three horror reads? Books that are not only favorites but also what you could consider the essentials –?

Drop them in the comments, if you don’t mind.

On a quick administrative note, a few of you have asked when I’ll compile the results of these lists — I will be doing that, but I need that pesky thing called “time.” (If anyone out there in the crowd feels they have the time and inclination to crunch the data, I wouldn’t say no.) So, I’ll probably reserve the compiling time to do in batches. The response to these has been pretty interesting, revealing a very fascinating fluidity in what people understand about certain genres and subgenres. I suspect it’ll continue with this week regarding people’s definition of “horror.”

Last week’s challenge: “Four Random Items.”

I wrote this book. It’s out now, and for a subgenre, I sometimes laughingly call it “cornpunk.”

This week, I’m over at Scalzi’s Whatever talking about the Big Idea behind the book, screaming a bit about corn and GMOs and Monsanto and marriage equality and raising a child and — well, hell, just go read it. Point is, I talk a little about the origins of “cornpunk.”

And now, this week’s challenge, I want you to come up with your own something-punk.

Preferably something that hasn’t been done before (cyber- steam- diesel- bug- etc.).

You’ve got 1000 words.

Due in one week’s time: August 9th, noon EST.

I’ll pick three random participants to get signed copies of Under the Empyrean Sky (if you’re in the US; I can send internationally if you want to pony up the shipping).

Go forth and write, ‘punkers.

This is one of those books that has what I believe to be known as “buzz.” Which means either it’s filled with wasps or people are talking about it. One or the other. Whatever the definition, I hear nothing but awesome about this book, so let’s sit in a circle and listen to what Jason has to say about it:

TELL US ABOUT YOURSELF: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?

At the moment, an author and a father.  It’s about as simple as that.  My boys are 3.5 and 1.5, which means they aren’t shuffled off to school day-in-day-out yet, and thus require a lot of time.  Which I gotta say, I love.  They’re my life right now, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything with the possible exception of a 2013 Aston Martin Virage in British racing green with a tan interior.

But who the hell am I? What makes me me? I can think of a handful of moments that shaped Jason of today.  Seeing Star Wars on the big screen when I was six gave me an early love of sci-fi and a paralyzing fear of being choked to death by telepathy.  Winning five hours of free play at an arcade when I was eleven cemented my already gigantic obsession with video games.  Inheriting a box of comic books when I was thirteen led me not only to discover that art form, but also caused me to meet the other comic book geeks at my school.  They’re still friends of mine today, by the way.  Seeing Pixar’s “Tin Toy” at an animation festival spurred an obsession with 3D graphics and animation that led to a career, years later, in the video game business.  I like to credit MTV’s spiral into non-music programming for my sense of humor, since one of the first non-music things they aired was Monty Python’s Flying Circus.  I was fifteen or so, and stayed up until midnight to watch that when I should have been doing homework, or, you know, sleeping.

I didn’t start writing with any seriousness until 2007 in an attempt to fill the creative void in my life caused by leaving the game business.  So far so good, I guess!

GIVE US THE 140-CHARACTER STORY PITCH.

A ragtag group must unravel the mystery of failing alien space elevator that is the only thing keeping the remnants of the human race alive.

WHERE DOES THIS STORY COME FROM?

I became fascinated with space elevators since reading “Childhood’s End” by Arthur C. Clarke.  One thing I heard frequently afterwards was that such a device would never get built because the materials required were simply too difficult to conceive, much less manufacture.  The contrarian in me thought, “Who says we’re the ones who will build it?”

As I started to think more about an alien-gifted space elevator, I came to really like the idea that some kind of apocalyptic event on the ground would turn it into a literal thread tying two very different societies together. Survival both on the ground and above would be impossible unless both sides learned to share and trade along this incredibly narrow trade route.  Plus, the game designer in me saw great opportunity in the natural choke points such a situation would have.  It all just seemed rife for politics, intrigue, and genuine terror, all piled on top of a first-contact story.

HOW IS THIS STORY ONLY YOU COULD’VE WRITTEN?

I’d love to be able to say I’m a space elevator scientist or an expert on pandemic diseases or, hell, someone who’s actually been to Darwin Australia where the story is set, but I’m none of those things.  I’m just a guy who thought up a story to tell, and I think the only thing that separates me from others is that I put in the effort to do it.  The research, the writing, the titanic battles with self-doubt.

I think it’s a mistake for new writers to walk away from a good idea because it doesn’t fall into the “write what you know” mantra.  Someone once told me the full quote is really “write what you know to be emotionally true”.  Everything else is research.  I believe that.

WHAT WAS THE HARDEST THING ABOUT WRITING THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Doing the work.  The actual task of writing.  It’s incredibly time consuming, and during the process I became a father twice in addition to carrying a full time job.  I really do have to credit everything to my amazing wife.  She supported this from day one and sacrificed sleeping in for years to give me the time I needed to write.

WHAT DID YOU LEARN WRITING THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Where to start!  My research for the book included a whole laundry list of things: Darwin (weather, geography, flora and fauna), tandem parachuting, firearms, explosives, Dutch air force, physics, sewer construction, water purification.  I could go on.  By the way, the first person excluding friends and family to tweet the word slipstream to me gets a signed copy of the book.  Let’s see who read this far.

From a writing standpoint, I learned that I’m an outliner.  I’m mortified of writing myself into a plot hole from which there is no escape except to delete chapter after chapter.  I’d rather do that kind of thing when each chapter is only a sentence.  I also learned that having a deadline, even a self-imposed one, really spurs creativity.

WHAT DO YOU LOVE ABOUT THE DARWIN ELEVATOR ?

Much to my editor’s chagrin, I love the setting.  I say that because from very early on he was very focused on the characters.  I love the characters, too, but I’ve always been rather proud of the world they run around in.  I think it’s certainly the most unique aspect of the book.  We battled (I use that word lightly) on the cover design in this regard.  I wanted a scenery painting; they wanted the main character front and center.  In the end I think they were right, but that doesn’t lessen my love for the setting.

WHAT WOULD YOU DO DIFFERENTLY NEXT TIME?

In the future I’ll probably spend more time up front fleshing out my characters.  I let most of their personality and background details emerge from my brain as I wrote, and I think this ends up making some of them feel a bit more shallow than I’d like.  That being said, I was going for a “Die Hard in space” vibe, accessible sci-fi in the same vain as my hero Scalzi, so I don’t think this does a terrible disservice to the book.  It’s an area I hope to improve in, though.

GIVE US YOUR FAVORITE PARAGRAPH FROM THE STORY:

Almost five years after the Elevator arrived, the disease appeared and spread across the globe. Why the Elevator negated it, or even how, remained a mystery. The two were linked, that much was obvious, but in that time of worldwide panic only one thing mattered: Get to Darwin. Darwin is safe. The city as it was collapsed under the onslaught of refugees, Skyler among them. Memory of that journey made him shiver even now. Amazing what humans could do to one another when their survival instinct kicked in.

WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AS A STORYTELLER?

Wouldn’t I like to know!  Much rides on how well these three books do.  In an ideal world, I’ll sell another Dire Earth trilogy to Del Rey and start working on them as soon as possible.

Right now I’m writing short stories that will be used as companion pieces to the release of DARWIN and its sequels.  After that, until there’s a clearer picture of what happens next, I’m going to start on a fantasy idea I’ve been anxious to write for over five years.

Jason Hough: Website / @jasonmhough

Darwin Elevator: Amazon / B&N / Indiebound