The strange afterlife of books (Nevédomosti №4)

Nevédomosti is a regularly irregular and irregularly regular blog about the publication's updates and other matters of interest and curiosity.

§1 My opus "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel" has been regaining some momentum lately. A few wonderful, surreal, magical things happened that made me to update my expectation of what the actual half-life and afterlife of a newly published book is and invigorated the fading attempts to spread the word about the book—there's really not much needed to be done to make a writer happy, mayhap slightly more than to imagine Sisyphus happy, but not marginally so.

I don't have much experience in samizdating a book and I don't have a particular time range in mind but a few months back the sales and whatever buzz that was left all stalled and I started forgetting the book existed. I do exaggerate here, of course, but there's plenty of truth to it. I operate in a way that when a thing is done, it's done, and it's hard to force myself to do anything related to it, such as to write a post like this or even sporadically talk to people about it in a casual conversation, especially in a situation while I'm working on another [magnum] opus^[1] that occupies most of my free time, attention, and writerly passion, among dozens of other things I want to do. But yes, to my surprise, "Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel" still exists (wow, actually) and, to even more pleasant surprise, has been doing really well (wowest wow).
Thanks to my dear friends, I managed to get the book displayed for sale on a few events of the Russian opposition in London, to which, despite being in English, the book naturally, given its topicality, has a great relevance. The proceedings from that go to the organisation; I practically donate the books for the good cause.

A few new readers found my book via that route. After one of the aforementioned events, a protest in front of the Russian Embassy against the increasingly tightening Russian homophobic laws, "Deleted Scenes…" was displayed again together with other merchandise for fundraising, that time with my presence. I'm still probably extremely naive and oblivious of the fact that what I write can be interesting to someone beyond a polite acknowledgement and moreover resonate with them, so when I get positive feedback of such kind, it always feels surreal and, in a way, unbelievable, yet of course making me happy deep inside, but that time the interest and the feedback was face to face^[2] as I managed to meet a few readers in real life (even one reader from Substack) and sign some copies of the book.

At the same time, be it related or not, I've seen more people on here expressing interest in my work on Substack. Annie Hendrix published a long wonderful heartwarming review of "Deleted Scenes…" in which she offers a lot of thoughtful and positive commentary:

When I ordered Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel online, I was expecting a book. What I received was a transformative experience. To be deeply moved by a work of art is a gift, and to experience this as the real circumstances reflected by the work persist is somewhat rare. Readers who enjoy poetics, humor, and experimental forms will revel in this timely piece of fiction by up-and-coming author Vanya Bagaev.
…
At times like this, creative work offers comfort. Art can soothe what is too painful to comprehend by transmuting suffering into aesthetic beauty, cathartic humor, and transportive storytelling. It can also unmask reality and help the audience understand and be understood. Deleted Scenes accomplishes both, and does so with a strong sense of artistic freedom that resonates with the story's powerful themes of resilience.
…
Vanya Bagaev's Deleted Scenes from the Bestselling Utopian Novel is not only a gift to the oppressed but to the observer. It is a forceful call to turn toward what matters and a brave stand against apathy and despair. It is also an aesthetic piece of art that can be admired for its beauty, which provides generous conventional framework to support the rich poetics, text art, and experimental narrative play which stimulate the imagination and invite the reader to revel in all that is possible.

There's a lot more in Annie's generous and insightful review, including a pinch of criticism, so I do recommend to read it fully, whether you've read the book or plan to. I'm grateful, honoured, and deeply moved, thank you, Annie!
You can read the full review and check out her other work on her Substack.

I'm dazed and thankful for all this happening and all the time people are willing to dedicate to my work and spreading the word about it and thankful for all your support. It is often, as I said before, the only reminder that I've created something important, not only for me but someone else, for you, and it's you precisely who makes the book alive after its published and roams free in the literary wildscapes. Thank you.

A lot of people have recently expressed the interest in the book, including those whose geographical location or financial situation doesn't allow them to grab a copy freely. If you're in a similar predicament, don't hesitate to reach out to me, either email me at vanya [at] nova-nevedoma [dot] com, and we'll solve that.

If you wish to have a signed copy of the book or want a copy for writing a review, whether digital or physical, just reach out and we'll solve that, too.

§2 "You can't leave it be," I said to myself. If you've already written the book, help her get on her feet. We are, they say, responsible for those we have tamed. I'm not talking about ruthless self-promotion, which I'm always uncomfortable with, and even if I wasn't, I wouldn't have a skill or enough time to do it. Everything here happens by intuition, achance^[3]. My tendency to shelf a thing that's done hasn't proven to be effective when it comes to samizdar which at some point even made me think the whole undertaking isn't for me. I just want to write, you know, but I also want to do it my own way, free from constraints, which doesn't make it easier. That's the thing about writing and publishing fiction, at least about "the type" I've chosen to write—I have to care about it even after the last full stop, even after its published, even when I'm working on another [magnum] opus. Semantic network of "care" here includes, progressively: look after, attend to, cherish, worship. Hence, the new perspective—thinking of the book as a life-long project rather than a done-and-move-on project. I still believe it's worth your time and attention, it's my first serious work^[4], it's the work I'm still proud of and don't cringe when reading a random passage from it like it often happens with older works. With "Deleted Scenes…" I reckon I've reached my own sufficient level of non-cringeness, even though I often think I could've done it better now, sometimes even much better, sometimes even completely differently, yet I don't feel I did it wrong way.

My role as "a writer" has ceased to matter for the book, for I'm not writing it anymore, not editing, not changing anything; it's become a solid piece of text that changes and mutates only when a reader opens it and allows it in, the readership that also includes me now. I do believe my writer's role for "Deleted Scenes" is over but there're plenty of other roles I have to fulfil, mayhap as its main, but not only, custodian, keeper, steward. It's a different role compared to both "a writer" and "an author" and requires me to adopt different thinking. I really want the book to succeed as much as possible given what it is not just as someone who wrote it—that person doesn't exist anymore—but someone who loves the results and reckons it important and worthy. So I've decided to put a bit more effort into "talking about the book" as that custodian of it.

Any text is a different text every time it's read by a different person. With "Deleted Scenes", I can only talk about the premise, the original intention, the goal of writing it retrospectively, from the present position, but it wouldn't be fair to the person who started writing it. Why did that person do that? I've no idea why. It felt good? Was fun? Relieving? The original feelings, ideas, emotions were sublimated at the time unto the text and now are rationalised beyond recollection. The reader always know better what the book is about and why it's important. I've noticed that many times while receiving feedback on the book regardless of the form. Thus I want to dedicate a few more posts, whether it's an essay, a bit of literary cricitism, a tour across [potential] influences, or something else, on the topics and other literature around the book, what and positions it in the literary tradition, and ultimately, regardless why it was written, why it's still an important book for me, now as a reader, too.