Discovered in my journal:
Maybe I’m wrong. I’m not an expert. But it seems that so much of fiction today, deep down, is about me.
Yes, fiction is personal. Yes, each writer has his own voice, his own point of view. That’s fine. That’s how it should be.
But this me-ness is more than that. It’s the sense that a book has to break boundaries, be different, burst the language, repulse you and play into your secret fantasies. That a novel must be a manifesto, as if to say: I wrote this, aren’t I clever?
I don’t want new stories. I want old ones. I don’t want a jumbled plot for the sake of impressing me. And, most of all, I don’t want your truth. I want the Truth.
See, that’s the crux (Biblical allusion intended). Tell me a story, give me an adventure, help me dream, but give me Truth. Because I believe Truth is eternal and immutable. I don’t think it’s old-fashioned just because it’s been around for awhile. I don’t want mystic mumblings on trying my best and everything happens for a reason.
If I’m not telling God’s Truth, I might as well keep my mouth shut.