An author dies, his friends write a touching account of his significance and their time together. The deceased is celebrated as a benevolent literary figure, a key holder who promoted inclusivity, a unifying force who paid his dues. It’s implied that his mourners also paid their dues. Some even lament that talented young authors are coming up “inexperienced” yet are unwilling to pay their dues. Gasp! There can be no keys handed over without dues paid. But, dues are like taxes; extracted by coercion from the powerless, avoided entirely by the privileged. Those born into establishment circles are easily handed keys without dues paid yet anyone born weird in the wilderness must first be fully tamed and defanged. This is how establishment works. It was once an unreachable land of privilege, by design. With revolution it was remade into accessible independent realms. But, the underlying stink of it persists. Universities still guarantee that only a devoted few embark for these shores with legitimacy. Literary traditions fuel pedantic rule-hungry grammarians who eagerly slit vernacular throats on the dock. Governments issue grant programs to “encourage emerging authors” who are then press-ganged into Botany Bays of commercial success. Peer review formats automate the whole travesty and turn the most acquiescent into key masters. Like a floating abattoir where unbridled creativity and intellectual freedom go to slaughter, it’s all very polite and reasonable. Oh to be shortlisted for the abattoir come springtime, it’s an establishment dream! For an author to stand free and wholly uncensored at the edge of the map is seen as unthinkable; to thrive there without paying dues, unimaginable. Yet, we must.
*. I think all this talk of paying dues has me channeling my inner John Murchie, and not just any John Murchie, 1990’s John Murchie, my favourite John Murchie.
