On Lessing and Wanting More

In reading Lessing, I realize I will have to write literary fiction. I feel a little sick at the prospect, knowing the failure waiting for me in the effort. And I must start now; when I was younger I kept thinking I could wait until, suddenly, magically, I would be a better writer. And I never was, so I could keep waiting.

What I’d like to write about is the grand and petty illusions we live in, madness, and children. Quite a few people have taken on illusions–it’s part of the American story is failing at the American Dream: I will not be able to match their abilities. Many have written on madness, but mostly I find the accounts wanting. And with children there seems a giant silence, like we are all unable to get to close. Perhaps because it’s been women’s work, which mean the stories are only ever rendered in saccharine and shame.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s