Those few who read my fiction generally comment on my satire. Those who actually know me might call it cynicism. Whatever one may choose to label it, it is a sense that things in our entrepreneurial world just don’t make sense.
I’ve held a number of jobs in my life and have come to realize that just about all of them have a single purpose: to help those above me get wealthy. I’m a daydreamer, not a corporate climber. And yet I wonder what might happen if wealth had to face reality.
A number of years ago I read about a sitting president (I can’t remember who it was, but it was before Obama) who couldn’t even guess near the price of a loaf of bread. Those above us, it seems, have forgotten what it feels like here on the bottom.
When the swamp monsters move in, those of ample means don’t know what to do. Discrimination is frowned upon. Yet, clearly, they can’t let monsters be monsters. And so “Famous Neighbors” (Defenestration) came to be.
The protagonist, à la Stephen King, is a writer. He is, of course, a successful writer. I’ve been reading how some of the most “notable” writers of today have obscenely grotesque bank accounts. I have to believe their art suffers.
Go ahead, call it sour grapes. I warned you I was cynical.
I write because it is who I am. Although I’ve been producing fiction since the 1970s, it has earned me a total of $15; $5 net. My novels lie unpublished, and most of my stories unseen. I am the swamp monster.
Voices of the unheard come to life in the unpublished. I follow the best seller lists, but not religiously. Not too much profound makes its way very high. I’ve known romance writers who make a living off of it. And they can call themselves writers.
I wonder what the magic formula is. How do you get an editor interested in your work? Maybe you need to show up on the doorstep. Just be yourself. Swamp monsters will always get attention.
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