The Author Is Dead (well, sort of)

For people wishing to know why I am a skeleton.

Photo by Paul Koudounaris.

If you follow me or crossed my path here on Substack, you probably have looked at my profile picture with a raised eyebrow. It clearly stands out amidst the friendlier ones of other Substack writers, showing their lovely real faces. I did not choose it to be different or smug. So why?

Because the author is dead. Well, not really. I subscribe to the literary theory of French philosopher Roland Barthes (developed in his 1967 book The Death of the Author), according to which a fictional text owes its true meaning only to the reader. It is the reader who gives substance to the characters, who illuminates the story with their perception of the world and their experiences. Most of the time, I am in awe of my readers, for they read my texts as ancient oracles read entrails; they are omniscient about my words, and the meaning of their arrangement. Truly, it is my entrails they are reading, and in them they find a future, be it mine or theirs.

The author (hi!), having accomplished their work of writing and editing, withdraws into their world without a trace. I have always read books without worrying about the authors (admittedly, I tend to read mostly authors who have actually passed away). For me, it is all about what I get out of it, whether it is an emotion, a pleasure, or a tool to help me lead my own life. As a writer, I don't want to impose myself on my readers' minds. No photos of my cat (which suits him just fine), no details of my boring daily life, no influencer’s familiarity to loosen their purse strings. Just my writing. I believe that there is honor in working in the shadow. As my friend Annieguile Bentulan finely observed:

“No one else can understand how far we’ve come, and while that may feel lonely, it is also a testament to our mastery.” from her article:

To Be or Not to Be Seen: A Creative’s Dilemma

My pen name and my profile picture with a Catacomb Saint relate to this idea of a dead/concealed author. If you don’t know what a Catacomb Saint is, first I recommend that you google the out-of-this-world pictures of Paul Koudounaris (the one above is from his book Heavenly Bodies: Cult Treasures and Spectacular Saints from the Catacombs).

Basically, they are relics fabricated by the Catholic Church at the time of the Protestant Reformation, to maintain its power in territories troubled by religious wars. An anonymous skeleton was taken from the Catacombs of Rome, sent to a convent or monastery where religious artists decorated it with sumptuous ornaments, and poof! Magically, a new saint was created, ready to bless a parish. It was a real commercial craze, and the macabre equivalent of contemporary influencers. By using this image, I am mocking a little the contemporary cult of celebrity imposed on writers, the photo with the forced smile, the demand to unbutton the top of the shirt to titillate readers, the injunction to be beautiful and photogenic to sell an intellectual/artistic creation. Can’t we enjoy things without starting cults of personality? Aren’t all these celebs starting to blend together, with the same codes, the same mannerisms?

Mystery is way more interesting. It is camp, it snaps, it encourages freedom and real life, far from the still-life of overmarketing. There are lots of artists who attracted success by playing the enigmatic card, if not a complete anonymity. Elena Ferrante, the members of the band Ghost, Banksy, etc. Some stars retain their magnetism by keeping their private lives a mystery. Besides, celebrity is not for everyone. I published two novels under a different name, with my face visible, and I did not like it (plus I earned peanuts). I was not like famous-famous, but still. People think they can invade your personal space, that consent does not apply to public figures. Am I channelling my inner Chappell Roan here? Maybe. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, fame can be a killer for an artist, especially if they struggle to fit in the narrow categories imposed by mainstream media. Allow me to quote Annieguile once more (because she rocks):

“Your identity becomes public, making you susceptible to scrutiny. And scrutiny is not always about the art itself; sometimes, it is a judgment of the artist as a whole. The line between creator and creation begins to blur, and instead of appreciation for the miracle of what you’ve made, you become the subject of critique—sometimes unfairly.

And so, the stress mounts, the creative process suffers, and what once brought joy can become a source of dread.”

Writing is at my core. It provides me with a sacred fire that allows me to survive, to rise from the ashes time and again. Because that is the paradox of the author: he can accept to step aside in front of his readership, to die symbolically, but like all human beings, he still wants to live. A living-dead author, aspiring to a stress-free life, a decent life. Which brings me to the reason for this little philosophical reflection.

Oh no, Laz is asking for money. Let me be super clear. I HATE that. It hurts my guts to have to ask for help to earn a living. Alas, we are no longer in a world that allows artists to sell their work the old-fashioned way, especially without publishers interested in unknown authors. Obviously, I am aware that the international gears at work today will make you think twice before supporting an artist. I see you, and I know that all we can do is try the best that we can, and make sure that art that has meaning to us survives.

But if you are willing to help a struggling artist, I can offer a solution. On Substack, my paid subscriptions are on, at the minimal amount allowed by the website, and if I have decided to not paywall anything, it can be an option if you want to support me.

Even the smallest gesture can make the difference in allowing me to continue to write. So, if you are considering supporting me, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I would be immensely grateful to you. Thanks for being here for me and my fiction.

PS: Your support can of course also be expressed through a free subscription, with a bit of promotion by sharing the links to my texts on Substack or elsewhere.

Also, I would like to take this opportunity to slip in a bit of housekeeping: remember to check your spam box to avoid missing my publications. And finally, there are plenty of amazing writers on Substack. With great humility, I regularly restack the gold nuggets I discover, so don't hesitate to consult my Notes for your daily wonder. Sometimes, just a like and a comment can make our day.