Not everyone is gonna like this post. Oh well.
We are so tame.
I mean, times have changed, and writers just aren’t looked at the same as we used to be. We are now dime a dozen, undifferentiated, stagnant copycats.
Like in the movie The Adjustment Bureau, David Norris, a charismatic politician, randomly meets and falls in love with a beautiful young ballerina by the name of Elise Sellas. (Shamelessly admitting I haven’t read the book.) They were never supposed to meet because Elise is too much of a loose cannon to date David, as he is future President.
Give me a break.
David and Elise were perfect for each other! Literally! They completed each other and everything! Just because Elise was a cute little freespirited dancer, ohhh they mustn’t be!
C’mon. What happened to our fire? Our freedom to eccentricity?
Some of our most prominent claims to fame were drug addicts, madmen, a little bit (or a lot bit) queer, alcoholics, etc.; but every one a genius. Where are they now?
Charles Bukowski advises that we Don’t Try.
Ernest Hemingway recommends that we Write Drunk.
James Joyce insists Writing is Torture.
William S. Burroughs shot his wife. (This isn’t the kind of behavior I promote.)
Bottom line: We pretty much used to be outcasts, but we were awesome outcasts that stuck together in our contrived fantasy realms.
Now we are housewives and mothers of two.
Nothing wrong with that for you, but that’s not the kind of writer I choose to be. I’m gonna be real.
This is just a thought I’ve had for a while. You may continue with your regularly scheduled day after these messages.