Apex Book Company

“It’s a bit autobiographical…which is rare for an introspective singer/songwriter, I give you…” –Roddy Frame

When I hear the word “self-indulgence,” I think of hot tea and a book by the fireplace on a cold winter’s night, of daiquiris on a beach under a blue sky, of candles and bubble baths, of sex and dark chocolate (and not necessarily in that order). When I hear the word “self-indulgent,” I think: crap. Self-indulgent crap. It’s the obvious association, isn’t it? Like peanut butter and jelly.

Artists have been reveling in self-indulgent crap for years; it’s a long-standing, time-honored tradition. We sing what we feel, play what we hear, paint what we see, and write what we know. Every Billboard Top 40 Hit, every note of classical music, every canvas in the Louvre, every Oprah Book Club Pick: self-indulgent crap. True, there is some very small element of aesthetic consideration for an audience (like a sound mix, or a frame, or proper manuscript format), but make no mistake. Great art? Yeah. It really is all about the artist.

Think about it: some of the most amazing creations you’ve seen/heard/read are also the most self-indulgent. They are the most heart-wrenching, the most thought-provoking. For art imitates life, as the saying goes (however, if you say “slice of life” I get to slice off your pinky toe)–you can’t have one without the other. The great thing about human beings is that our lives are really not so very different. We all live, we love, we learn, we all feel panic and pleasure and pain. The events aren’t always the same, but it’s easy enough for us to project our own circumstances onto someone else’s trials and tribulations–so much so that it’s almost ridiculously easy to spot something that doesn’t ring true.

A great artist is an artist who has their own distinct voice. Their “certain something” stands out from the crowd. Certain aficionados can glance at a painting and tell a Renoir from a Picasso or a Van Gogh; they can listen to a stanza and tell Handel from Mozart or Chopin. One of my recent essays was referred to as self-indulgent crap. I could not have been more flattered. Hallelujah, I thought, I’ve finally arrived.

I’ve made no claim that my essays here are anything else. And why should they be? Readers read to leave their own mundane existence for a while, to live someone else’s life for a while however tragic or fantastic that life may be. When they finish and return to the world they know, they may find themselves relaxed, inspired, or relieved. That part–the reaction–is up to the reader. It is up to the writer to provide the means of escape.

As for those of you who choose to walk in my shoes from time to time along my journeys, I am honored. How am I like you? How am I not like you? If we were trapped on a deserted island together, would we have anything to talk about?

Last year, I made a New Year’s Resolution to be more selfish. Yes, there are some of us on this planet–the Givers, you know who you are–who for some reason dedicate their lives to making other people happy. Even though I’ve always known it’s impossible to make someone else do anything they don’t choose to do themselves, it seems to be a lesson I’ve had to keep relearning my whole life. Maybe if I try harder next time, maybe if I make things easier, maybe if the Earth spins backwards, maybe…yeah. Maybe if we do enough for someone else there will be nothing of us left to care if that person ends up happy or not. I took the Myers-Briggs personality test and ended up in the same category as Shirley Temple and Mother Theresa. Great. Even my nature was working against me.

Last year, that Resolution failed miserably. This year, I tried again. I let myself wallow in self-pity, guilt-free, as I started back on myself from scratch. Alice’s sea of tears was a thimbleful next to my ocean. There were days I kept busy, and days I stared at the ceiling. There were days I talked on the phone and days I listened to music. There were days when I did nothing but watch marathons of CSI, always encouraged to see William Peterson and Gary Sinese tie up their resolutions in neat and tidy packages. I painted. I wrote in my journal. And in doing all of those things, I got to know me. I had heard this Alethea chick was pretty awesome, and it was well past time for me to appreciate that firsthand. So I did.

And then I got the hell out of the house. I had some adventures. For who am I without my adventures?

This summer was amazing in the way that the first bite of tiramisu would be sheer decadence to a starving woman. From June to September: Mo*Con to Context. I visited every time zone of the continental United States and didn’t once throw up on a plane. I made a best friend. I was made a princess. I was given a warning by the police. I was given hugs from all over the world. I sold a story and had another published. I shot an arrow. I wore a leather corset and made hemorrhaging brains. I ended up bare-assed in the creek and eaten by mosquitoes. I used a best-selling author’s book as a napkin. I yelled across the Pacific Ocean and promised Kim Jong-Il that I would finish my novel by Christmas. I kissed a boy one night in the cold, wet grass, under a star-filled sky, surrounded by fireflies. And he kissed me back.

This summer was The Summer of Lee. Usually coming-of-age stories like this are about young boys and girls who somehow lose their innocence and become adults. But this year has been all about introducing me to myself (Hi, self!). It’s been about living my life for me. And, barring the terminal clutter and the lack of friends lolling about on my couch, it is a pretty awesome life. Awesome because the bottom dropped out and I survived. Awesomer still because you guys are still here, walking with me on my journeys (only, get your own damn shoes). Awsomest because I got called “self-indulgent crap.” How often do you achieve your New Year’s Resolutions?

And now I’m going to give you a homework assignment. Are you ready? Here’s part one. In the next day or week, set aside some time–an hour at least–and do something completely selfish. Write in your journal that no one will read. Make up a song and sing it where no one will here you. Dance where no one will see you. Get out a pencil and sit in front of the mirror and draw your self-portrait. Open all the windows. Buy that pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Take that hour and enjoy yourself. (If you’re not smiling at some point, you’re not enjoying it.)

Here’s part two. The day after you have your selfish time, do something nice for someone else. Buy flowers for your boss. Make brownies for a friend. Send your aunt a card. CALL YOUR MOTHER. Advertise someone else’s book on your blog. Buy finger paints for your kids. Then go back to part one and start all over again.

It’s admirable to pay it forward, but you can only keep paying out as long as you’ve got cash in the bank. This is YOUR life. Everything you touch, every word you write, every smiley-face you scribble, every breath you take, every move you make, every (oops, sorry) — all those things contain some part of you. But who the hell are you?

I urge you all to go find out. You are more awesome than you think you are. And I look forward to reading about your adventures.

Alethea Kontis’s first publication was her essay in Apex Digest issue #3. She is now the author of AlphaOops: The Day Z Went First and the official Sherrilyn Kenyon Dark-Hunter Companion, as well as co-editor of the SF all-star anthology Elemental. Find out more about Alethea’s own plans for world domination on her website: www.aletheakontis.com.

In June 2008, Apex Publications released a collection of essays and memoirs from Alethea titled Beauty & Dynamite that includes contributions from Brian Keene, Tom Piccirilli, and John Ringo.

Beauty & Dynamite can be bought in the Apex Shop or along with the rest of Alethea’s books in the Apex aStore.