DEATH IS ETERNAL #419

3,500 words

Last week, I began DEATH IS ETERNAL by saying I was going to open comments for everyone, and then I went on to forget to add the button and make it accessible for everyone to comment, but! There’s a reason for that. As I wrote in the LIFE section, “I’m starting to write this at 4:15 pm PT on Monday, Sep. 16, 2024. Yes, I’m starting to write this 45 minutes before DEATH IS ETERNAL hits your inboxes,” I was in a time crunch, so I had no time to review what I wrote (i.e., I forgot my promise). But also! Substack doesn’t allow me to open the comments only. For everyone to comment, the entire post had to be free (i.e., no paywall); I learned that when trying to fix my mistake. Since I didn’t want that, I decided to live without your feedback. Now that I have explained myself and you no longer think I’m an idiot, let’s begin this newsletter.

Contents

1. THE FALL OF CLERFAYT

2. Writing: marketing

3. Bye!

4. Life (from September 16 to 29, 2024)

5. Reviews #327, #328, #329, and #330: LALIGA: ALL ACCESS, BATWOMAN by J. H. Williams III, W. Haden Blackman III, and others, BATGIRL by Bryan Q. Miller, Lee Garbett, Trevor Scott, and others, and RED ROBIN by Christopher Yost, Fabian Nicieza, Ramón Bachs, and others

6. The end

1. THE FALL OF CLERFAYT

The sun had barely risen over the Ourthe river, its pale light casting a faint glow over the mist-shrouded valley. The French Army of Sambre-and-Meuse, commanded by General Jean-Baptiste Jourdan, had spent the previous night preparing for what would be a decisive blow to the Austrian forces of the War of the First Coalition. Tension crackled in the air like the inevitable thunderclap before a storm.

The village of Sprimont lay nestled in the hills ahead, its stone cottages unaware of the history about to unfold. Across the river, Count François Sebastien de Croix, known to his soldiers as Clerfayt, commanded the Austrian left wing. His men, huddled behind hastily constructed defences, believed themselves secure in their positions. They had no reason to doubt it—after all, they had fought many battles and survived many storms.

But this day would be different.

Aware of the weakness in Clerfayt’s lines, Jourdan had spent days planning. His ruse the day before had worked; Clerfayt had taken the bait, shifting his troops to reinforce the right flank. Unbeknownst to him, Jourdan’s true attack would strike the left, where Austrian numbers had been dangerously depleted.

As the first faint rays of sunlight pierced the mist, General François Séverin Marceau stood silently with his men at the bank of the Ourthe, watching the other side as if it might reveal its secrets. His orders were clear: he was to lead the main assault across the river, circling around Latour’s flanks and forcing the Austrians into retreat.

“General,” a voice whispered from behind, “The men are ready.”

Marceau turned. Captain Jean Bonnet stood before him, a hard-edged veteran who had seen more war than any man ought to. His gaze was steady, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his nerves.

“Good,” Marceau replied, tightening his gloves. “We cross at first light.”

Moments later, the order was given. Cannons fired in the distance, the opening barrage meant to disorient the Austrian forces. Shouts echoed up and down the French lines as Marceau’s men, veterans and fresh recruits alike, plunged into the cold waters of the Ourthe. They waded across, muskets held high, the water tugging at their legs like unseen hands trying to pull them under.

On the far bank, Austrian skirmishers opened fire. The sharp crack of musket shots echoed through the valley, and men fell into the river, their lifeless bodies swept away by the current. But the French pressed on. They grew closer to the enemy positions with each step, and soon, the river crossing was complete. Marceau’s men surged forward, spreading out like a flood over the Austrian defences.

The fighting was fierce. Steel clashed against steel, and the screams of the wounded filled the air. Marceau led from the front, his sabre cutting through the fog of war, directing his men with sharp commands. The Austrians, caught off guard, struggled to hold their ground, but the French advance was relentless.

To the east, General Jean Mayer’s division had crossed the Ambleve without much resistance, using the broken terrain to their advantage. They advanced quickly, moving through the thick woods and broken hills toward the village of Sprimont. Their objective was clear: outflank the Austrians, surround them, and cut off their escape.

Meanwhile, the Austrians were fighting desperately to hold their line. Count Theodor Latour, commanding the Austrian left, had not anticipated the ferocity of the French attack. From his position near Esneux, he could see his men falling back, their defensive positions overrun by the sheer force of the French advance.

“Hold your ground!” Latour shouted, his voice rising above the din of battle. “We cannot let them break through!”

But even as he gave the order, he knew it was futile. The French had outnumbered him, and their forces were more mobile, more determined. Latour had already sent his reserves to support the counterattack against General Honore Hacquin’s forces further east, leaving his defences dangerously thin. Now, Hacquin’s men had found another crossing and were moving to encircle Latour’s position from behind.

Realizing the danger, Latour ordered a withdrawal. It was the only way to save what remained of his forces. As the Austrians began their retreat, the French pressed harder, pushing them back toward the village. The fields and woods around Sprimont were littered with the dead and dying, the cries of the wounded mixing with the sounds of battle.

By midday, the village had fallen to the French. Latour’s forces were in full retreat, their lines shattered and their spirit broken. Jourdan’s plan had worked to perfection. Clerfayt, seeing the collapse of his left wing, had no choice but to order a general withdrawal from the Meuse. The French had won a decisive victory, and the Austrians were now forced to abandon their positions along the river.

As the sun began to set over the battlefield, Marceau stood atop a small rise, looking out over the field. The bodies of friend and foe alike lay strewn across the landscape, a stark reminder of the cost of war. He had seen this sight too many times before and knew he would see it again.

But for now, there was a brief moment of peace. The battle was won, and the French had secured their foothold on the Meuse. They would press on tomorrow, chasing the Austrians out of Flanders and further east toward the Rhine.

Marceau wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to Captain Bonnet, who stood at his side, his face grim.

“Another victory for the Republic,” Bonnet said quietly.

“Yes,” Marceau replied, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “But at what cost?”

The wind picked up, carrying the smell of smoke and blood through the air. The Battle of Sprimont had been a triumph, but as with all victories in this brutal war, it had come with a heavy price. The road to peace was still long, and many more battles lay ahead.

The end

2. Writing: marketing

Photo by Melanie Deziel on Unsplash

It’s hard to deny the importance of getting the word out. When you spend months or even years working on a novel, a short story, or a comic, the natural desire is to have it seen, read, or discussed. There’s no satisfaction in creating something only to have it disappear into the void of unread pages. But somewhere along the way, the balance between creation and promotion tilts dangerously. Writers are no longer just writers—we’re expected to be marketers, publicists, social media managers, and personal brands. And that, slowly, methodically, tears at the very heart of why we write in the first place.

There’s an insidious shift when you’re told, implicitly or outright, that your work doesn’t just need to be written—it needs to be sold. And sure, it’s understandable. The world of publishing is a crowded one, and the days of being swept up by an agent or publisher who will take care of everything for you are long gone for most. The digital age makes self-promotion more accessible but at a steep cost. What begins as a way to help your work find its audience quickly becomes a time sink, drawing energy away from what matters most—writing.

I often find myself torn between two personas: the writer and the marketer. The writer wakes up eager to explore new ideas, shape characters, and tangle with language. The marketer wakes up with a checklist of social media posts, newsletter drafts, and engagement metrics. The tension is constant, pulling my attention in opposite directions, and worse, that tension feeds into the very essence of creativity. How do you focus on telling a story when the back of your mind whispers, “How will this sell?”

This duality does something more sinister than just time theft. It seeps into the creative process itself. I’ve caught myself thinking, “Will this appeal to readers? Will this gain traction? Will this fit into a tweet, a post, a shareable moment?” Instead of being immersed in the story, I’m prematurely editing my thoughts for mass appeal. It becomes easy to lose the personal intimacy that once made the writing itself so vital. The craft becomes secondary to the strategy.

And here lies the danger. Yes, it’s essential to market your work. Without it, no one may ever know your book exists, and there’s heartbreak in that thought. But the demand that writers devote as much time to selling as to creating leads us down a precarious path. It warps the writer into something they were never meant to be—a publicist first, a creative second. It’s not just a distraction; it’s a transformation, one that leaves us more concerned with algorithms than ideas.

What’s lost in the process? The next great story, perhaps. Or the quiet moments of introspection that could have bloomed into something beautiful on the page. Writers are not immune to burnout, and when half our time is spent chasing attention, the well of creativity runs dry faster than we’d like to admit. The more we focus on marketing, the more we risk becoming hollowed-out versions of ourselves, constantly chasing a moving target.

It’s not a question of whether writers should promote their work—we can’t escape that reality—but how much of ourselves we’re willing to give to it. How much are we willing to lose in the pursuit of recognition? In a perfect world, we’d find the balance. In the real world, we teeter dangerously on the edge, trying to maintain our integrity as creators while navigating the pressures of being visible in an oversaturated market.

The most dangerous thing about forcing writers to market themselves is that it makes them question why they’re writing in the first place. Is it for the joy of creation or for the fleeting satisfaction of likes, shares, and numbers that will never fully represent the value of the work itself? It’s a shift in mindset that leaves us all a little emptier, a little less inspired, and ultimately, a little less creative. And for a writer, that’s the greatest tragedy of all.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.