I have friends who are social workers. Friends who are teachers. Friends who are nurses. Friends who work at non-profit organizations dedicated to helping the disadvantaged and the oppressed and the environment.
All these wonderful individuals, deep down they f*cking hate me.
And with good reason. While they’re each working their respective ass off to educate and empower and ease real suffering, I’m sitting at home in my underwear simply making up stories.
At least I have the decency to feel a little guilty about it.
I’m not saying writing fiction isn’t important. It’s very important – to those who write it. Whenever we authors finish a book, we feel we have shaken up the world, created something everybody must experience. But if we were to take a step back and view things objectively (and soberly), we would see that nobody really needs our novel – not the way a child needs a teacher or a refugee needs asylum or a rainforest needs a hippie.
The Lord of the Rings can’t get an underprivileged kid into college. Gone Girl doesn’t provide food and shelter. The Great Gatsby has never saved anyone from anaphylactic shock. To Kill a Mockingbird can’t protect the whales – or even the mockingbirds, for that matter. (Granted, a copy of War and Peace reportedly once helped keep a plane from crashing by adding some much needed tail weight, but nowadays people only read the e-book version.)
Don’t get me wrong; novels are beautiful things. Delightful distractions. Even the mediocre ones can help readers temporarily escape the doldrums. The demons. Daylight. But when it comes right down to it, a novel is a pack of lies. A vividly detailed fabrication that may parallel the truth but can never be the truth.
And that’s okay. There’s more than enough truth lying around outside of novels. It’s all over the place. The truth is thick in the air outside, sometimes choking us. So I’ll go on writing fiction, fabricating, embellishing. Because I know there are a lot of people who, while they may not need my stories, deserve a decent lie now and again.
If you haven’t already done so, be sure to check out ‘The Exit Man’ – my best lie yet.
And with good reason. While they’re each working their respective ass off to educate and empower and ease real suffering, I’m sitting at home in my underwear simply making up stories.
At least I have the decency to feel a little guilty about it.
I’m not saying writing fiction isn’t important. It’s very important – to those who write it. Whenever we authors finish a book, we feel we have shaken up the world, created something everybody must experience. But if we were to take a step back and view things objectively (and soberly), we would see that nobody really needs our novel – not the way a child needs a teacher or a refugee needs asylum or a rainforest needs a hippie.
The Lord of the Rings can’t get an underprivileged kid into college. Gone Girl doesn’t provide food and shelter. The Great Gatsby has never saved anyone from anaphylactic shock. To Kill a Mockingbird can’t protect the whales – or even the mockingbirds, for that matter. (Granted, a copy of War and Peace reportedly once helped keep a plane from crashing by adding some much needed tail weight, but nowadays people only read the e-book version.)
Don’t get me wrong; novels are beautiful things. Delightful distractions. Even the mediocre ones can help readers temporarily escape the doldrums. The demons. Daylight. But when it comes right down to it, a novel is a pack of lies. A vividly detailed fabrication that may parallel the truth but can never be the truth.
And that’s okay. There’s more than enough truth lying around outside of novels. It’s all over the place. The truth is thick in the air outside, sometimes choking us. So I’ll go on writing fiction, fabricating, embellishing. Because I know there are a lot of people who, while they may not need my stories, deserve a decent lie now and again.
If you haven’t already done so, be sure to check out ‘The Exit Man’ – my best lie yet.
