“I like to read about things that are real.”
My friend looked away as he said that to me. He felt embarrassed because my new novel was sitting untouched on his desk. He felt compelled to explain why he hadn’t opened it. He doesn’t read fiction, not unless it’s jammed down his throat.
I didn’t object. Number one, he had bought the book, with actual cash. Two, he was cooking dinner for me and my family. Three, I don’t jam things down people’s throats except on the page, and then generally only if the character deserves it. But my friend was wrong.
Love, death, anger, greed, envy, and crazy people running amok in California. That’s what’s in my books. What’s not real?
Yes, I know it’s all my own invention. But there’s something real in storytelling, which is why, despite the name of this blog, I don’t consider fiction a lie. It’s true, and it’s alive. And that’s one of the things I’ll be talking about here.