“Write the book you want to read.”
Is that good advice? I’m not sure. When I think about it, I know it makes sense, but as soon as I concede that, I suddenly lose my idea of what I want to read. It just flies out of my head, like all the books I knew I wanted to look for once I step inside a bookstore, or the way album titles used to leave me when I finally made it to Camelot Music in the Middletown Mall throughout the 80s.
What are the books I have loved most in the world? They made me laugh. They made no sense. They had no real plot, but the characters were funny and said funny things and did funny things, and faced no punishment for their transgressions, asked no forgiveness and learned no lessons from their experiences. No logic. No linear timeline. Nothing believable, nothing rooted in believability, but always haunted by the ghost of reality. That’s the perfect book.
Nobody really wants to read about redemption, because the moment you feel another person has redeemed himself, you feel criticized; you feel less than that person. Observe a person making his mistakes. Then laugh, and sneer. Feel superior for a few beautiful seconds. Because you’ll eventually have to go back to your life full of mistakes and transgression and subversion, and you can’t count on redemption. Nobody can.