Love of Craft?

Money can't buy happiness. One of the many comforting lies recited by the masses. The world is full of such sayings, rooted mostly in religious platitudes to help you feel better about your troubles and to remember that collection plate. Are you comforted? Happy is a subjective term. What is it that dominates most of our thoughts? How will we pay the rent, utilities, car maintenance and food, not to mention what happens if you get sick? If you define happiness as having food, shelter and medicine, then yes, money can buy happiness.

Just a couple of posts back I said fare-thee-well, I was done giving away my talent, such as it is. I knew as I wrote it that it wouldn't last, I was already formulating a breakaway political blog and pondering what I would write here.

The simple definition of success is setting a goal, doing your best to achieve it and no matter the result success has been achieved. By that standard I have had many successes. But you can't eat it and it won't keep you dry when the rain comes. My idea of professional success is to make enough money to support myself doing exactly what I want to do, that's a trickier thing than it would seem. For me, it's always been about words, speaking them and writing them. I began scribbling my little stories when I was very young. They weren't good but they were mine, I even wrote erotica, which got me in trouble. The stories often began, "It was late that night..." that was my signature for all erotica and my take was to incorporate science fiction into it. When I was 19, in a moment of artistic rage, I burned everything I had written to that point. Years later I discovered that one manuscript had survived my pyro moment, it was a detective story penned during my Conan Doyle phase. There was definitely an idea there but nothing short of a total rewrite could turn that turd into a shining piece of mediocrity. I burned my work because I believed it was shit, I was probably right, but most importantly, it was mine.

Now, what does any of this have to do with H.P. Lovecraft? I'm glad you asked. Lovecraft died in 1937 at the age of 46 from cancer of the small intestine. He died a horrible, painful death and he did so in poverty. He wasn't in poverty because he had blown all that money from his legendary work, oh no, he was in poverty because he never was able to make a living as a writer and editor.His life was filled with nightmares and tragedies. To be certain, he was troubled, aren't we all? He was far from unknown in publishing circles but outside of a couple of stories published in pulp magazines he got nowhere. He edited and rewrote other writer's work for them but he couldn't make a living. He did some work for Harry Houdini who was greatly impressed with H.P. and was determined to help him but Houdini died before he could do that.

Lovecraft often went without food so that he could pay for postage. He was one of histories great epistolarians, rivaling Voltaire. It is estimated that H.P. wrote 100,000 letters during his 46 years. Isn't that a beautiful word, epistolarian, an elegant way to say letter writer. What are we today, Twittetarians?

H.P. Lovecraft died penniless and unknown to the masses. But then he became known throughout the world recognized as a master of Horror. Millions of dollars have been made off of his work and not a one of those making that money had a right to. Essentially Lovecraft's work became public domain the moment he died and it still is, it's that simple and complicated. August Derleth preserved Lovecraft's work, not out of altruism but out of graverobbing greed. Publisher's that wouldn't take his work when he was alive, did so after he was dead. Derleth claimed he had the rights to the work but he didn't, in fact none of those claiming ownership were ever able to prove it. In succeeding years publishers would pay Derleth out of respect for him in that community but it's an injustice. In modern times there are gaming companies using "Cthulu" and claiming they own it. They don't and when pushed their assertions crumble. They are stealing a dead man's intellectual property.

I put it to you, what good is it to become famous and generate millions of dollars for strangers off of your work, when you died in poverty, unremarked and marginalized? Lovecraft should have destroyed his work on his deathbed but he couldn't because it was his and he loved it. But to all of those who fucked him after his death, you are guilty of necrophilia and theft.

When I die, there will be those who say "what an unusual and interesting man, I will miss him", some will say "what an arrogant prick, good riddance", those are the ones who tasted the full fire of my words in their lifetime and could not bare the truth that I burned into them. Everyone else will say, "who?"

Before I depart there will be another pyro moment, because it's mine. Unremarked and forgotten is better than repeated cold defilement.