“You made it so he didn’t suffer in your story,” I said. “Isn’t that at least an act of mercy?” He smiled a little but was interrupted when the waiter approached and asked for our order. Holden moved onto his second cup of coffee as we continued to talk but he declined any food, claiming he’d lost his appetite. “So that’s why you write fiction—it’s safer?” I asked as the waiter sat my eggs on the bar. “When you write about something from your own life,” he began, “it doesn’t belong to you anymore. The experience, the feeling…it belongs to who’s reading it. It’s cathartic.”
“You made it so he didn’t suffer in your story,” I said. “Isn’t that at least an act of mercy?” He smiled a little but was interrupted when the waiter approached and asked for our order. Holden moved onto his second cup of coffee as we continued to talk but he declined any food, claiming he’d lost his appetite. “So that’s why you write fiction—it’s safer?” I asked as the waiter sat my eggs on the bar. “When you write about something from your own life,” he began, “it doesn’t belong to you anymore. The experience, the feeling…it belongs to who’s reading it. It’s cathartic.”
