I wonder at times if writers have an overblown god complex. Mankind has always been susceptible to the temptation, “You shall be as gods.” Whether we realize it or not we all create our world…that space where we live, move, and have our being. Writers take it a step further creating on pages entire universes and manipulating the inhabitants of multiple worlds. Time is meaningless we go to any age past, present, or future with a few taps on a keyboard. That authors enjoy this power just might say something about their inner workings.
That’s to say nothing of the kinds of worlds we create. We are told “Great Literature” transcends the pages…it’s full of unspoken motivations, hidden thoughts fully and fully applicable to real life. In godlike fashion, they hand down fictional guides for a real world. I imagine the people who write that really suppose the do mankind a service. Maybe they do.
I read the classics, but sometimes I have trouble with tales that have nothing to tell but the same crap I go through right here and now. I’ve had enough of that. Take me to worlds I can see nowhere else, introduce me to characters I don’t deal with at work every day.
Writing is, at its height, an escape for author and reader. That’s why people like me tell the kind of stories we do. Stories in which the cat walking across the lawn is not a cat at all but the scout for an alien civilization, where the hot new café off the interstate is an undercover operation for the punishment of cheaters or the wallet bought at a flea market, is more than leather for keeping cash in, it a sanctuary to a lonely ghost. You get the idea.
At least I hope you do…because today I writing about a distant world were eagle headed people and their werewolf allies battle humans for the fate of their world.