The author is dead, long live the author
A revelation alongside the usual assortment of local food intel for this month’s paying WFJ subscribers
There’s no “I” in “food journalism”. Or is there? Upon reading Roland Barthes’ 1967 essay ‘The Death of the Author,’ every creative writing student (myself very much included) didn’t need much more reason to convince themselves that the story is the most important thing about a piece of writing – it doesn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter, who tells it. Any ego in the message must be sanitised by the author and screened by the reader. The literarists of the mid-20th century said so.
You might say the same about life in general – we all go around trying to convince everyone else we have no traits other than the ones we want to be publicly apparent.
But what if the ego was part of the message? I’m slowly coming round to this thought that my literary training, which finished some 13 years ago, has not prepared me for – not that inflections natural and distinct to an author are involuntarily and perhaps unavoidably apparent in their message, whether in journalism or in fiction (some would say those things are one and the same), but that readers want those inflections. Are hungry for them. Probably in the same way they want an exploration of vices and virtues in fictional characters (this being what sells novels, after all).
It kinda makes sense. People want to know people – they don’t want to ‘know’ products or services. Bear in mind I’m coming to terms with this as the proponent of a newsletter titled The Wallfish Journal. The most engaging Substackers/YouTubers/whateverers are themselves, or at least some version of themselves, and under their own name. They ain’t ‘hiding’ behind a publication or something else that they can, whether at short notice, disassociate themselves with. That, strangely enough, may well be where authority is found these days – not in traditional journalistic modes, but in literary ones (even or especially that of the unreliable narrator). Some other Substacker said something on the lines of the best writing on Substack consisting of not just great writing, but great writing that makes people curious about who wrote it. This has made me further wonder whether the WFJ is perceived as a product of me, or whether it is me. And if it is a metaphorical stage (i.e. helping platform a variety of people), or if it’s the microphone (a mouthpiece for one). Really I’d like it to be more the former and less the latter.
Anyway, this is a long prelude to the fact that, since starting the WFJ in January 2022, I (Hugh) have never really introduced you to the person writing to you every other week. So here it is. Being an enjoyer of food, and being someone who has writing as their primary means of expression, has led me down the path of using those things to help people better enjoy and understand what they eat and drink (elevator pitch WIP). Since moving to Frome in Somerset, this has translated into ‘how do I help my community better understand and enjoy what they eat and drink’ (too strong? Too knightly?) in the form of writing yes, but also by managing farmers’ markets, creating a collective of like-minded food people, and through the efforts of that collective organising local food projects and events.
That’s what I do. As for what I am, let’s just say my personal character and character arc could at least in part be determined from what’s between the lines of everything you’ve read above. In addition, people often like to comment on: my height; that I’m a prolific wearer of shorts; that they often catch me eating; that I am laconic, and stoic. Unless any protests arise, there’ll be more evidence that there’s a character or unreliable narrator at the WFJ helm (I’ve also updated the about page to reflect this), and he wants to be far more of an active human than what his previous projections might suggest.
Next month for paid subscribers: Why does everyone think I’m a food critic? (I’m not, but also sort of am)
Below the paywall: When do we reject localism; Big Food gets away with it (again); Decidedly un-romantic stories of what it’s like to chef in Paris; and more besides.