Why I Can't Write Literary Fiction

“Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few are to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”

So wrote Francis Bacon.



The latter category of books he spoke of, I believe, can be found today in what we call "Literary Fiction." It's the pinnacle of literature, isn't it? It's what serious, professional writers labor to bring forth.

Literary Fiction stands above genre fiction and relegates it to mere story telling. It is the realm of deep insights into the human condition. It's where one finds masterpieces of genius.







I can't bare my soul enough to produce it. Like all people who've lived to my age, I've had moments and extended periods of life that are tragic and shattering—things I've lived through and carry the scars of. I can't delve into them enough to share them with readers. It would break my heart, and I'm not strong enough to inflict the pain on myself. Furthermore, my story is personal and perhaps magnified in my own mind far beyond its real significance. Still, I can't lay it out for everyone to see.

What I am is a story teller. I write genre fiction for the entertainment and diversion of readers who will honor me with their attention.

Since one can only write what he knows, I sculpt my fiction from scraps of memory and imaginings, and occasionally am able to produce a poignant moment, a quotable passage, or an interesting insight.

I suppose Literary Fiction is beyond my ability because I can't or won't spend enough time reliving the pain. But I'm not a bad story teller, I'm not in the class with Conrad's Marlow, but sit down at the table with me. Let me spin you a tale.