One of the best stories I ever read as a child was a fantasy novel by some local dude selling books out of a suitcase on the sidewalk downtown, and I don’t remember what it was called or who the author was, and it’s so obscure that no matter how many elements I remember, I’ve never been able to find it through web searches. I only vaguely remember the story - it was a love story, something about a tower on an island and two characters on a quest to discover their forgotten past. They fall in love and at the end the only way to stay together is to allow themselves to forget again, and you realize that they’re right where they started, in the exact same tower, and they’re doomed to go on this same quest over and over again, never completed, but that also means they’ll fall in love over and over again forever. And I remember how that ending blew up my little child brain into a million pieces.
I don’t know what happened to the book, and I’ll probably never read it again, but if you’re somewhere out there and you were once selling fantasy novels from a suitcase on the sidewalk in the suburbs of Chicago, and if you ever felt like your writing never meant anything or went anywhere except a hundred copies you had printed yourself and sold for almost nothing, please know that your story buried itself in my young brain and has probably shaped my worldview in ways even I don’t understand.
There are a lot of sweet, well-meaning folks in the notes advising me on how to search for this book, and I want you to know that I will never find this book. And that’s okay.
This author self-published, which at that time meant he paid out of his own pocket to print 100 copies and sold some but not all them for cash on the sidewalk in one small town. E-books weren’t a thing. There is no digital record to find. Even if I remembered any of the names or details, it wouldn’t be searchable. No librarian has it in a catalogue.
The vast majority of books written before the modern day are lost media. Countless artists poured their hearts into stories that were read by few and lasted only as long as the paper they were printed on. Most of the art ever made has been destroyed or thrown away. Most of the music ever written will never be heard again. The expectation of permanence in art is very new, and even now, there are millions of works of art that will never be recorded or posted or shared. Millions more that will never even be completed.
Creation, with few exceptions, is a mandala. A vulnerable song performed for dear friends by a campfire, but the singer soon forgets how it went. A poem shared in a coffee house that rattles the audiences’ bones but will never be heard again. A sketch of a lover on hotel stationary that the maid will throw away tomorrow. Our current reality exists by the influence of art that no one remembers.
Permanence is not purpose.