Loneliness, Love, and Literature
By David Corbett | February 14, 2025 |
Among the many powerful things I’ve read recently, the one that struck deepest as a writer of fiction came from Robert Stone’s piece in Paths of Resistance: The Art and Craft of the Political Novel. The piece was titled “We Are Not Excused,” and the section in question was this:
The practice of fiction is an act against loneliness, an appeal to community, a bet on the possibility that the enormous gulf that separates one human being from another can be bridged. It has a responsibility to understand and to illustrate the varieties of the human condition in order that consciousness may be enlarged.
The writer who betrays his calling is the one who, for commercial or political reasons, vulgarizes his own perception and imagination and his rendering of them … The reassurance [such writing] offers is superficial: in the end it makes life appear circumscribed. It makes reality appear limited and bound by convention, and as a result it increases each person’s loneliness and isolation. When the content of fiction is limited to one definition of acceptability, people are abandoned to the beating of their own hearts, to imagine that things which wound them, drive them and inspire them may be a kind of aberration particular to themselves.
Stone’s remarks reminded me of something Simone de Beauvoir wrote in a review of Violette LeDuc’s memoir, La Bâtarde:
She who writes from the depths of her loneliness speaks to us of ourselves.
Finally, I was also reminded of the philosopher Richard Rorty’s concept of ironism, which can be described as “fashioning the best possible self through continual redescription,” an effort that requires us to reach beyond our own experience to learn from the experiences of others—in no small part from reading and writing. This is how we create solidarity:
Solidarity is brought about by gradual and contingent expansions of the scope of “we;” it is created through the hard work of training our sympathies … We train our sympathies … by exposing ourselves to forms of suffering we had previously overlooked … to sensitize [ourselves] to the suffering of others, and refine, deepen and expand our ability to identify with others, to think of others as like ourselves in morally relevant ways. The liberal ironist, in particular, sees “enlarging our acquaintance” as the only way to assuage the doubts she has about herself and her culture.
The task of achieving solidarity is … divided up between agents of love (or guardians of diversity) and agents of justice (or guardians of universality).
I doubt I’m alone in taking heart from thinking of “guardians of diversity” as “agents of love,” though it is also disturbingly clear that this is a view currently under strenuous attack.
My point here, however, given that it’s Valentine’s Day, is to broaden our understanding of love as it pertains to the stories we write, and why we write them.
I imagine it seems somewhat counterintuitive to think of fiction that conforms to convention as enhancing a sense of loneliness or isolation. The whole point of writing in a conventional manner is to be popular, to gain as wide an audience as possible. Stone’s point is that this is an act of bad faith, diminishing both the writer and the reader by limiting their understanding of reality, and thus of themselves. Mainstream fiction (what Stone calls “meretricious writing”) in this view is a kind of comfort food that ultimately poisons us.
Allow me for a minute to put this in a personal context.
After Terri, my first wife, passed away—at age 44, the peak of her life, from ovarian cancer—I learned two important lessons.
First, if I’d not had our dogs to care for, I would have likely taken my own life in the year after Terri’s death. I believed that I had already become the best person I could be by being with her throughout that ordeal, and my best self therefore lay behind me. The rest of my life would be diminishment, a gradual wearing down. I often advise friends who are grieving that I cannot overstate the importance of having someone, even a pet, to care for other than oneself. I imagine it, if you will, as a form of solidarity, a way of expanding our understanding of others, of sensitizing ourselves to their suffering, not just our own.
Second, I realized if I was going to keep on living, I needed not so much a why as a way. Or rather, the way would lead me to the why.
And so I decided to try, as best I could, to counter my belief that I’d already become my best self and instead try, as best I could, to be at least a little bit of a better person each day. I would do that by trying to be a bit more brave, a bit more honest, and a bit more loving—caring, patient, kind—every day. (A good friend, after hearing me explain this, replied, “I sorta do the same thing. Every day, I try to be a little less of an asshole.”)
These two realizations ironically led me to two more:
First, abiding by this daily regimen, despite its simplicity (or maybe because of it), was much harder, more demanding of my awareness, than it sounded.
Second, honesty, courage, and love were not distinct from each other, but deeply, inextricably interconnected.
This hits home when I think about what Stone, de Beauvoir, and Rorty are expressing. That to write well one must write honestly; that this requires a kind of courage more compatible with vulnerability than strength or power, let alone fame or success; and that this ultimately is an act of love—expanding our understanding, our sensitivity, to that unknown lonely soul on the far side of the page.
What are your thoughts on literature, loneliness, and love this Valentine’s Day? How is your writing—and your reading—an attempt to expand your understanding of others, to sensitize yourself to their suffering, to “enlarge your acquaintance?”
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
I’m having a hard time with a small section right now – à propos of relationships and love – precisely because I have no experience to draw on, and this is a first.
I can handle all the hard parts, the compromises, the goals – but I don’t know, from my own life, even after almost 50 years of marriage, how to make this one relationship inevitable – because mine is so different.
I’m having to learn it from the ground up before I can write it. I have to channel each of the characters when in their pov to realistically portray what I will probably never know.
And it startled me. I write mainstream fiction about an enormous number of themes connected with friendship, marriage, and children – thought I had it all figured out, plotwise. I did. I do. But, like a method actor, I’ve always had something to start from that was very personal. And I don’t.
This could be the hardest thing I ever have to write.
Hi Alicia:
That’s a an incredibly honest self-assessment, and the fact that you are that self-aware my provide you a way forward. When we’re confronted by what we ourselves don’t know, we have to look to others to guide us. One of the best pieces of advice I ever received was, “We don’t know ourselves by ourselves.” Do you know of a writer who has captured well what you’re struggling to convey? If so, allow me to state a second piece of invaluable advice I once received, this from Oakley Hall: “Steal wisely.” I’m not being cheeky. “Fake it till you make it” isn’t a cheap, pop psych prescription for plagiarism. It’s a recognition that to reach outside ourselves we often have to mimic someone or something until it becomes second nature.
Good luck.
Yup. Usual solution. But I haven’t found one – the predecessors I have wimped out. None go far enough.
I’m doing this the hard way.
Oh, well. No one said it would be easy.
Your post comes at a time when I frequently ask myself: “Why keep going? Nobody will want to read this anyway.” Then I remember books that spoke to me in unexpected ways and made me so glad the author did the work to put them out there. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t even know what I was missing, but they did, and their words stirred up thoughts and insights I found enlightening, at times when I needed them. Never mind if millions of readers can be moved with a piece; if one person would be uplifted by my words at times of need, I’d be so happy.
The best reward that I have ever received for my writing have been personal notes from readers who have said something along the lines that you just did. Thanks for that, Joey.
David–thank you for this demonstration of the essence of your post. What you say here is invested with all three elements–honesty, courage, love. So much needs comment, but here are three admittedly superficial responses.
1. “I doubt I’m alone in taking heart from thinking of “guardians of diversity” as “agents of love,” though it is also disturbingly clear that this is a view currently under strenuous attack.” So true. For me–just me–the attack itself leads me to contempt, which is one of the many enemies of generosity, generosity being a kind of synonym for love. I also struggle against a sense of contempt when I see writing by others that convinces me it’s driven by the marketplace. I tell myself to be generous, that writers who train themselves to write to the market have been conditioned to do so.
2. “I often advise friends who are grieving that I cannot overstate the importance of having someone, even a pet, to care for other than oneself.” So true again. It reminds me of a line in one of Saul Bellow’s novels, I think Dangling Man. “We all want to give ourselves away. If we can’t, we throw ourselves away.” That’s what I take you to be saying about the loss of your wife, someone you freely and lovingly gave yourself away to, saved after you lost her by pets you both loved.
3. “…to write well one must write honestly; that this requires a kind of courage more compatible with vulnerability than strength or power, let alone fame or success….: The vulnerability comes from the courage and strength needed to defend the power of imagination against the arrayed forces of What Sells, what current fashion dictates, what others want us to believe, all of which flies in the face of what we know in both head and heart we need to write.
Thank you for a Valentine to keep.
Thanks, Barry. Really enjoying your novel, by the way.
Music to my ears, David. Thank you.
Decades ago, my cat kept me alive, and you are so right.
Funny how that works. I think not only having someone to care for other than oneself, but having a source of affection and someone you can share it with is crucial. Death can seem to kill everything. Caring and loving can bring at least some of it back.
Well David, you certainly are “preaching to this choir of 2. As you know, I have been stripped naked so what you see is what you get authentically. Ivalue the friendship. Happy Valentines day
I am hearing from our co-agents in LA that what “Hollywood wants” now is escapist fare. I suppose that makes a certain business sense. Screwball comedy was popular during the Great Depression, and we are nothing now if not depressed.
Over here in fiction land, I am hearing some writers worry that what they are writing is not directly addressing the current crisis. However, I believe that whatever one is writing can do so, even in commercial categories. Look at noir detective fiction, which captured the fear and atmosphere of corruption of its times. Even now, when we have forgotten the history, we can feel what life was like then.
When written with hearts open, springing from the real pain and longing of our lives, I believe that we can do that again. Should fiction be “political”? I think it should be authentic.
Authenticity is inherently political. It expresses the individual vision against the forces of power (coercion) and conformity.
I’m reading a delightful book right now titled Playworld. It’s about a child actor in NY circa 1980 dealing with love and, guess what, authenticity. The narrator comes to realize he is “playing himself” in all his encounters (many of which are hilarious). You could possible call this a “mainstream” novel but I don’t think it deserves Stone’s pejorative of being “meretricious.” There are some beautiful passages, some deeply poignant about shame, doubt, denial, and love. And it’s helping me get my bearings by reminding me there is no more political act than retaining one’s sense of humor. (Read Darkness at Noon or Milan Kundera’s work — one of the best ways to fight back against the authoritarian is to laugh.
One of the other genres that was popular during the depression was the crime story. Bank robbers in particular were often lionized as Robin Hood figures (Pretty Boy Floyd, for example) because the banks were seen as the villain so often during that time. But Capra films like Meet John Doe and It’s a Wonderful Life, though firmly within the mainstream canon, have distinct political messages about power, greed, and the importance of community.
That said, given the current trend in cowardly billionaires, I have to admit that Hollywood’s desire for “escapism” may have more to do with denial, acquiescence, and obedience rather than serving any legitimate need from audiences.
While I love your post and many of the thoughts you graciously shared with us, I can’t help balking at the notion that “mainstream fiction… is a kind of comfort food that ultimately poisons us.” But that’s just me. I love stories and don’t feel compelled to elevate some by denigrating others.
As I said, the term Stone uses is “meretricious writing,” by which he meant work from a writer who “for commercial or political reasons, vulgarizes his own perception and imagination and his rendering of them.” I did not mean to imply that all mainstream fiction meets this test, though I can see where you might infer that. My apologies.
I would add, however, that we are always elevating one sort of story over another in our preferences for what we want to read. If your preferences differ than mine, well, as they say, that’s why we have horse races.
As for elevating some stories while denigrating others, perhaps you’re a universalist and believe every story has merit. I disagree. I know when I’m being lied to, manipulated, played for a sucker, or patronized by an author’s belief I’ll swallow anything he or she puts on the page, whether because it’s a “ripping yarn” or “everybody’s reading it” (think: 50 Shades of No Thank You), or if the writer thinks I can’t see through to the plumbing. I doubt I’m the only one who recognizes there’s quite a bit of that going around.
Fair enough.
Just to clarify, I didn’t mean to suggest that every story has equal merit to me. Rather, I meant that if someone derives value from reading 50 Shade of Whatever, well, good for them. And if you prefer not to read it, good for you. Preferences differ, as you noted, and I consider that a good thing.
But note how that sentiment (“preferences differ… and that’s a good thing”) is not the same as drawing a line and proclaiming, “These book here, they’re good. And those on the other side of the line, they’re a ‘comfort food that ultimately poisons us.'” Poison us? Really? Those who read and enjoy Colleen Hoover or James Patterson are poisoned?
Perhaps I misunderstood you. If so, apologies. I read this line as an endorsement of Stone’s claim:
“Stone’s point is that [writing in a conventional manner… to gain as wide an audience as possible] is an act of bad faith, diminishing both the writer and the reader by limiting their understanding of reality…”
I would venture to guess that most writers write to be read. Additionally, most writers would love for their books to generate the financial success of a J.K. Rowling or Lee Child. Perhaps you believe that Rowling and Child and Stephen King and Danielle Steele are acting in bad faith. You could be right. Or, perhaps, they’re writing the stories they want to tell (and would like to read).
Since the beginning of time (or, at least, the advent of art), there’s been persistent and persistently strong attempt (by some) to draw lines and claim that “this art has more merit than art. This art elevates! That art is popular and vulgar and diminishes me as well as the artist.” That’s exactly what Stone is doing. And I suppose I’m saying that I don’t necessarily understand what’s to be gained from that. Stone (and those who agree with him) must. Otherwise, they wouldn’t do it. But, to me, if people are reading and enjoying it… Great!
Again, if I misunderstood, apologies.
It perhaps would be better if we examined the definition of meretricious:
meretricious /mĕr″ĭ-trĭsh′əs/
adjective
Attracting attention in a vulgar manner.
“meretricious ornamentation.”
Plausible but false or insincere; specious.
“made a meretricious argument.”
Of or relating to prostitutes or prostitution.
“meretricious relationships.”
It’s the second definition that I think applies here. I’m not arguing against writers writing the stories they think they can best accomplish. If you honestly, sincerely believe you’re doing your best work, go with God.
I’m saying that if the motive behind the work is tainted by disingenuous motives, and the writer is aware they’re cheapening their own convictions for the sake of whatever, that dishonesty is not harmless. Giving people false or insincere work is not a victimless crime. The reader is not unaffected by it. The culture is not unaffected. That mercenary cynicism becomes part of the zeitgeist–and it is very much a part of the resistance artists everywhere encounter when trying to break free of the “suits.” I have a number of friends who walked away from TV or film work, at least temporarily, to write fiction because they got sick of the attitude that artistic integrity was for fools.
And here’s a story about Lee Child, who I very much like and respect. We were teaching together at a conference, and I was at the end of the line for his book signing. When I came up and handed him my copy of one of his books to sign, he looked around first to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then said, “What are you reading THIS for?”
One question and one thought:
Can you give a small handful of examples of “mainstream fiction” that “poisons us”? Perhaps that would be a helpful clarification. And, please note, I’m only citing “mainstream fiction” because those are the words you wrote (“Mainstream fiction… in this view is a kind of comfort food that ultimately poisons us.”).
Since you noted 50 Shades of Whatever, I’m assuming you believe it falls on the “bad side” of Stone’s line. If so, I suspect you believe “the motive behind the work is tainted by disingenuous motives, and the writer is aware they’re cheapening their own convictions for the sake of whatever.”
Not to put too fine of a point on it, which, of course, means I am, but isn’t it a bit arrogant to presume the motive behind any writer’s work, perhaps even if they tell you?
What you’re suggesting is that in Stone’s (and your) estimation, if Stephen King or Danielle Steel or Colleen Hoover writes with a “clean heart” or “true motives,” then their work is not “poison.” However, if their motives are not pure and true, their work is poison. Poison/not poison depends on the motive. It’s not a question of content. It’s strictly a function of motives, specifically, are they sincere.
I suspect that’s not Stone meant, but okay. And maybe Stone et al. have the divine ability to look into the hearts of others and decipher true motives. That’s surely something else. I definitely lack that ability. And even if I had it, I suspect I would still be happy that those bad, bad authors with their impure motives consistently create books that provide millions of people, i.e., victims, pleasure.
Yes, I used the term “mainstream fiction” but the words that follow are not irrelevant–“in this view” refers back to Stone’s statement that “A writer who betrays his calling is the one who, for commercial or political reasons, vulgarizes his own perception and imagination and his rendering of them.” That clearly does not mean all mainstream fiction, and the “poison” analogy was meant to correlate with the problem with fast food. Sure, to some it’s delicious. It’s also a health hazard. I think art that is cynical, in that it’s seeking a political or financial reward instead of speaking to a truth the author finds essential acts much the same way.
Yes, determining who “vulgarizes his own perception” can’t be known objectively. But like porn, one often “knows it when he sees it,” or in this case reads it. It is indeed a subjective determination. If you’ve never read something and at some point thought, “Boy, they really mailed this sucker in,” I congratulate you on your good fortune.
If you want examples you’ll have to find them for yourself (except for reality TV, which I consider a blight), because I no longer read anything that I don’t very quickly determine as being worth the time. (One such book was not “mainstream,” and widely lauded; I considered it derivative and archly “woke” in the worst way.) And the fact that people may derive pleasure from reading something I find meretricious is simply a fact of life. But trying to derive from a case for some grand theory of the good is an argument for aesthetic relativism, which means there are no standards. Everything is fine if someone likes it. Who are we to judge? Well, if not us, who? That’s not live-and-let-live. That’s abdication of our responsibility as artists. The fact we may disagree on what the standards are does not mean we should not establish them for ourselves. And argue about them.
Now, I’m going to end my day here and enjoy the evening with my wife, after which we will watch a show we find worth the bother and I’ll end the day reading a book I’m truly enjoying. Because I can tell the reader poured his heart and soul into it.
“But trying to derive from a case for some grand theory of the good is an argument for aesthetic relativism, which means there are no standards.”
Should be:
But believing we can’t develop an idea of what our own case for excellence is because someone will naturally have another is an argument for aesthetic relativism, which means not that standards may differ but there are not standards at all.
“Because I can tell the reader poured his heart and soul into it.”
“reader” should be “writer.”
Thank you for a most thought-provoking comment. Your response about “meretricious” makes me think of a couple of recently published novels by admired writers that I am certain are reflections of sincere beliefs but which, IMHO, for whatever it’s worth, I think come to too easy conclusions about family love and forgiveness. One of them I simply dislike because it seemed to pile up conflicts between characters in a soap-opera-y way, which then all seem too simply solved by “forgiveness.” It wasn’t dishonest, I am sure, in the sense that the author didn’t believe what they were writing, but it just failed to achieve believability, at least to me, and I was rather disgusted. The other, by an author I very much admire, I enjoyed reading — I think of it as a “comfort book” — because it was so interesting, well-written, and essentially cheerful about life, but again, it seemed to sum up and resolve things too neatly. And to Alice’s wonderful comment above, I am struggling in my WIP with a similar problem — not a love story in the sense of romantic love, but a long-standing complex friendship that gets deeply twisted and broken over the years. I, too, would like a happy, positive resolution that seems “inevitable” because I LOVE my characters, even the most annoying, screwed-up ones. But I am not getting there; I am stalled, although I’m beginning to see my way out… dimly…. All I can say to myself (and Alice?) is that I don’t think things are “inevitable” in personal relationships. I don’t think falling in love with a particular person is “inevitable,” or the healing of a friendship is “inevitable.” That doesn’t mean it isn’t true or valuable or lasting if and when it happens. It means the story is in what makes it happen, the struggle — or possibly the effort fails, as the case may be. It absolutely has to be true to the characters; sometimes they just won’t let what the writer wants happen.
Thanks for your comment. I don’t believe all conflicts need to be resolved to provide a good story. Some conflicts remain in a state of abeyance–it’s how they reach that point that provides the story. Don Maass has written recently about stories that provide a mirror, that show reality for what it is rather than what it could be. I think such a story as you’re describing fits that description.
I’m not a big believer in inevitability. Everything is contingent. Some forces are stronger than others, and tend to prevail. But a tendency is not an iron-clad law. “Likely” does not mean “inevitable,” not does “probably.”
One thing to consider: does one of your characters in the twisted and broken friendship make a decision to prevent it from happening? Does one or the other recognize the path they’re going down, regret where it is leading, and decide to do something about it? Even if he or she fails, if if they choose unwisely as to what to do or the other person rejects the opportunity or demands too much in return, you’ve provided the possibility of a change in direction, and that is inherently dramatic.
Goo luck with this story. I love stories of friendship–the family that is freely chosen.
David, your post is a gift. And my story is simple, and death is final. My father died at the age of 45 from a massive coronary….in our living room. My mother had three children, under the age of six. She had US. And that is how she survived, but not only survived, she gradually used her love of us to succeed, prosper and never marry again. Love on this Valentine’s Day is never card and candy. It is sacrifice (sorry I am a Catholic) along with creativity. Anyone can find a way to love and heal, whether it is a pet or a pet project. We all must place our energies somewhere. I am blessed with family…a new grandson, but I am also blessed with what I love to do. Write. And I was blessed with that amazing mother of mine….Thanks, Beth
Thanks, Beth. I will let my wife know that today is not about cards and candy, because I thoughtlessly forgot to provide her with either. (Schmuck that I am.)
Sacrifice is a heavy duty word, burdened unfortunately with some masochistic dead weight. I tend to think of love in that sense as less self-denial as refusal to walk away from the loved one in times of need (or any time, actually).
And then there’s the partnerless person whose beloved lifeline IS the pet. When Bowser or Mittens dies, hoo-boy. And yet, we usually (hopefully) find something to get us through the emptiness and lethal silence. In my case–I was like, what??–it was Led Zeppelin, cranked loud. Which pushed me out of the no-more-dogs-for-me phase straight into signing adoption papers for my next BFF. Ask me, whatever it takes.
“Whatever it takes”–words to live by.
My wife, refusing to live without a dog, made sure we got a pup when our older dog was reaching the end of his first decade. The pup drove the older dog crazy, of course, too much energy, too much of a little punk, but their combined presence in our life was grand until the older boy left us. And we now talk often of when it will be time to give Fergus a younger sibling.
There are some Youtube videos going around, made by AI, of what Led Zep would sound like if they’d recorded in the 50s and the 40s. It underscores how very much of their time they were. That in no way diminishes their therapeutic power.
Thanks so much for the heads-up re: the Led Zeppelin AI YouTube videos. I laughed out loud at “The Led Zeppelins”–maybe AI isn’t all bad after all. What I’d give to see the reactions of the (remaining) band members hearing these versions for the first time.
Books and music have always been a balm to my aching soul that longed for authentic love but aside from family, received only counterfeits. Marriage and motherhood that brought and taught me authentic love and as Beth says above, it is about sacrifice. What is passion, but the willingness to suffer for that which you love? Be it another person, a pet, or a craft. I am blessed to have family, friends, pets, books, music, this creative life to love. Happy St. Valentine’s Day to you and yours.
ps: There’s a famous story about a boy who carries another. When asked if it was hard, the boy replies, “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.” Love in action! Boys Town adopted it as their motto. See: https://www.boystown.org/blog/the-story-behind-he-aint-heavy
David, I’m grateful for those dogs of yours, keeping you going, because you have gone in such good ways. As you suggest, “… to be at least a little bit of a better person each day” isn’t for the faint of heart, but it’s a kind of valentine for life. I’ll keep trying if you will. Thanks.
It’s easy to trip over your own feet, but it’s worth the journey.
When I found myself simply not able to go on, only my dogs and my people gave me a reason to get up and believe. I made it through (when you’re going thru hell, keep going helped) but I still feel some internal mechanism within my heart is broken and unrepairable. (That’s only to me, everyone thinks I’m ‘ok’.) You could say I’m authentically fakin it. Not even sure I’d want to write about it. Anyhoo, I am so very sorry you lost your wife. Hugs
Sometimes the greatest testament to life is to simply “keep going.” And there are definitely wounds that never quite heal. The death of a cherished one, for example, continues to resonate, if only in a whisper in the mind that life is luck, and it can turn anytime. The trick, I suppose, is to recognize how they damage but don’t cripple us (unless they do, of course). Few things are as lonely, though, as knowing you’re not okay when everyone else thinks you are. I hope your dogs and people take some of the sting out of that.
Dear David, This was incredibly touching. I have never left a comment before on anyone’s site, but your words rang so true for me that I was in tears. I have a cat, Leo. Just saying. And a husband of 52 years. Oh, should I have mentioned the husband first?
My last book came out in 2010. You make me want to get writing again. Thank you.
No better time than the present to pick up writing again, Barbara. And I think your husband will understand about Leo.
Beautiful, and arriving at precisely the right moment as I finalize a collection of short pieces written over 15 years of conversations with people experiencing homelessness or flying on one side or the other of the poverty vortex.
Love and courage are missing in most of our responses to poverty as a society, government, neighbors, and even agencies set up to help. There’s a lot room outside those structures for us writers and truth tellers to fill.
Your first quoted paragraph gets right at it: “The practice of fiction is an act against loneliness, an appeal to community, a bet on the possibility that the enormous gulf that separates one human being from another can be bridged. It has a responsibility to understand and to illustrate the varieties of the human condition in order that consciousness may be enlarged.”
If I wrote only as journalist, an ethnographer, or case worker, I’d have to leave out the heart of it.