Monday, May 19, 2003
Erika Lopez and Octavia Butler
Prolific doesn't suggest quality, although many people seem to equate the two. Certainly unpublished authors, like myself, admire the prolific among us. With wide eyes we stare at the Stephen King wing of Barnes and Noble and in a hushed voice we say: "He's so prolific" like we were hookers describing a particularly well endowed john.
Yet Stephen King and Anne Rice have written nothing but crap for the last fifteen years. They are prolific and they are hacks.
As a reader it can be frustrating to love an author's work and be able to read thier entire catalogue in a week. Take Erika Lopez, the crankiest welfare republican in San Fransico. I love her wit and style and relevant social commentary; but I can read everything she's published in a day, if I start at 6 am and only eat cold cerial. Then there's Octavia Butler: the best Science Fiction writer that most people have never read. Her portfolio is small, yet packed with ideas that make you furrow your brow and then unsuccessfully try to explain them to your friends who nod and smile and try to steer the conversation back to network television. I love them both. I want to read more of thier work, but I can't; and I'm glad, because they wouldn't be as good as they are if they churned out a doorstop every six months.
To be a successful working writer, I have to be prolific. To be an artist, I have to give my books the time to germinate. I have to decide which I want to be.
