hungry sunday

dear jen,
not dismissive of your work.

i know and i feel your work is brilliant, necessary, kind.

what i question is our work.

as authors, even small-time, even unpublished, we have privilege beyond the doctors, billionaires and politicians that claim to run the show.

even in fiction, we are tellers of truth.

you'd be right to sense some resentment.
but it's not towards you, it's towards the industry of publishing.
it's towards industry and modernity.
towards progress and safety first.
towards helmets and seat belts instead of buses to love riding, service that's free of charge, freedom to move without having to drive, to go without wearing a car.

since we both wrote fictionalized reality, we were both published.
but when i wrote reality, i couldn't find a referral, an agent, an outlet.

and my anxiety is looking forward, not unlike your beautiful daughter, what will i know for certain is true? who were those people that julian assange blew the whistle on? how will i write anything that guarantees the purity of fact when half of our human perception relies on magic and fairy-tales?

artificial cancels intelligence.
jk rowling should never have outed dumbledore.