As an ardent preacher and practitioner of fiction, I am often faced with the question of whether my work or fiction in general, adds any value to anyone’s life?
Unlike the more tangible benefits of the work of a doctor or a scientist, the impact of fiction cannot be quantified in any meaningful sense, and it makes me wonder if fiction is a hoax after all and I, the faithful lover of it, is but another example of a zealot.
And yet, I do know it has made a difference in my life.
In what sense exactly, I won’t be able to tell. And certainly won’t be able to explain.
Like our most cardinal instincts, it escapes definition.
I think fiction is the closest I will come to having a faith.
In an attempt to make my work matter, I am often tempted to write ‘meaningful stuff’. Stories that tackle a social issue, bear an underlying message. Stories that tell how the world ‘is supposed to be’.
And when the activism fizzles out, all I am left with is the world ‘as it is’. And for better or for worse, that honesty is the only thing that remains.
The honesty to air the dirty laundry in public.
The honesty to sit down with the bigotry and exploitation of people who mean the best for us after all.
To realize the convenient conditionings of many years and begin to undo them in spite of it.
