|—||From Pajiba, on Sherlock.|
[ source needed ]
Okay. Someone asked me how I feel about writing fiction in a world that still needs actual activism and hands-on work to make life better. They said something similar to, “I get pulled away from writing fiction because I feel guilty for not making tangible benefit to the world. Isn’t fiction just escapism?”
But I also got the following message, which I’m filing some of the serial numbers off of, as it were:
“I just wanted to tell you something. When I was 18 years old, my life was a fucking mess. I worked at a store that sold comic books and one day I stumbled upon Spider and the filthy assistants. Your comic kept me from killing myself. There is a character limit here so I can’t say everything I want to but thank you. From the very deepest part of my heart.”
I post this not to self-aggrandise. It is not a unique message, for good or ill. I get them surprisingly regularly. Frankly, messages like that scare the hell out of me, because I’m not very smart and not a very clever writer and I fuck up all the time.
But fiction speaks to people. Even fiction like mine acts to tell someone, somewhere, that they’re not alone.
You want tangible, social benefits to writing fiction? There are people walking around today because other people wrote words that spoke to them. That’ll do.
And thank you.
And from me, a thank you to fiction writers who throughout my life have taught me things about myself and about the world that non-fiction never has.
A gorgeous shot. There’s always something about red.
Post-show and I’m sitting in a loud 24-hour diner waiting on eggs and bacon. It’s 2:30am, I’m surrounded by humans and want nothing to do with any of them. Sometimes the way I find myself alone is liquid and serene. Other times it’s ramparts and sharp ice.