Hello! I hope this correspondence finds you well. I have been meaning to write you for several weeks now, but have not found the time nor the courage. Fiction, we need to talk.
After careful consideration and much deliberation, I think we need to take a 'break'. Not a break up, just a trial separation. I think you are amazing. I mean you are Fiction, god damnit. What is better than Fiction? (answer: nothing, unless you are counting oreo blizzards). You are smart, you are imaginative, you are lyrical. You enchant, delight, horrify, and move thousands of people everyday on long commutes and the restless path to sleep. You are amazing. And always have been for the trillions of years you have been around. You have your own Pulitzer Prize in your name. You are the bomb.com.
Here is the thing, you are also wearing me the frig' out. I have been trying to write you for quite some time now with moderate degrees of success. You are complicated. You require thoughtful plot, well rounded characters. You need a clearly defined voice and engaging narrative. You are looooong. So long. Even for a short story writer.
I also have to come clean. I have been taken in by a foxy temptress. One with cheap, easy thrills and a self-satisfying edge you never had. Her name is Personal Essay and she is a vixen. She makes it easy to write, quick to spill out ideas and characters and stories (because they all kinda happened already). She can be trashy, I won't lie. And she doesn't always require the same level of skill you do. But she is fun. And it's summer, Fiction. The best time of year for fun. I know you will argue that you offer up plenty of Jodi Picoult and Janet Evanovich for the season, but I can't write that kinda stuff, Fiction. You know that. My stuff is sad and weird and will never be what you are dying to curl up with under a giant beach umbrella as the sand sifts into the seams of your swimsuit and you slurp your lukewarm diet coke.
This won't be forever, I promise. By the fall I will come crawling back, ready to snuggle under your densely worded prose and endless descriptions of dilapidated houses and well worn relationships. I have loved you ever since I wrote that piece of crap story about a fountain in third grade that was such a horribly obvious rip-off of Tuck Everlasting. You have my heart, Fiction. And you always will.
But for now, I need a summer dalliance. And this summer it is personal essays/David Sedaris impressions. No, they are not great. But they are easy. And sometimes, when tube tops and flip flops abound, you just need easy. So I am briefly trying to join the army of people already much more established on the interwebs writing
Summer fling- don't mean a thing, Fiction. But oh those summer nights...
hugs and kittens,
the Undisciplined Writer