An agent once said that to sell, a novel has to validate our most cherished beliefs. If this is true, then what’s the point of writing? Our cherished beliefs are bunk.
The universe does not make sense. Not every effect has a cause. And things don’t always work out for the best.
The government does not have our interests at heart. A government consists of government employees, and the only interests they have at heart are their own.
Marriage is an outdated institution, perpetuating outdated roles. There is no happily ever after. Love does not come to all of us, and it doesn’t last forever.
Family is not the most important thing in our lives. How can it be? We spend our adulthoods trying to overcome what was done to us in our childhoods, and we put our children in daycare centers and schools to be raised by strangers.
Motherhood does not confer special status. Mothers are common – about half of all creatures on this earth are mothers.
And apple pie makes you fat.
So what’s the point of writing? Because for one brief moment we control the universe, and our cherished beliefs become real.
But what the hell do I know.