About Being Mad

Post 1896:

Creators of fiction sometimes feel that their work has to make a grand point. Political, idealogical, theological, some kind of al. My first book (unpublished) was a scathing satire of basically every major institution in American society. Was it good? Parts were, I think, but mostly it was obnoxious. The story was often overshadowed by my need to convey my vast reserves of knowledge upon the reader. It’s debatable, but I’m decently capable of humor, so when I wrote the book I thought I was cloaking my stout propositions in requisite wit to make it palatable.

Maybe I was. But I don’t think my heart was in the right place. There was a vein of meanness running through the writing. Writing fiction mean is pretty nuts if you ask me. You want someone to get something out of your work. The sympathy and heart and sadness and joy should be amped up—not so much the mean and mad.

The point is to get people into a story. That’s it. Entertaining from an angry place doesn’t work. I’ve been onstage a thousand times—it’s been scientifically tested. If I go up looking to show off the chip on my shoulder, it goes south very quickly. People don’t deserve my wrath, nor do they deserve to read it in my books.

I see a lot of anger in media today. Most TV shows are pushing their agenda by minute three, and it’s so obvious. Agendas aren’t bad, but they have to be handled with skill and wit. Blunt force rage comes through so very fast. Only the deftest touches can create a work of fiction that “says something” in a way that’s honest and sympathetic and fair—in other words, effective. If you want people to “listen,” they have to be “listening.” That’s not as banal as it sounds. Be careful. Like, literally. Care about your writing and the story and most of all, the person that will be reading or watching. Save your righteous indignation or what matters—the critics. Those stupid idiots just never get it and I hate them so much.

Anyway, write with love. Cheers and see you after.