In our first class for Fiction II last week, the professor encouraged us to speak up about what kind of stuff we write. This took me aback. I wanted to say Satire with gusto but apart from the fact that someone else beat me to it, I was a little troubled by the fact that I don't actually consider myself a satirist. I don't think I'm familiar enough with the Great Modern Way to adequately lampoon it.
So I was stuck there in the back of the class experiencing my first real crisis as a writer.
What the hell do I write?
I've been working on a novel for a few years now that feels satirical but that almost seems too quaint of a description...like I'm either bastardizing it or being way too ambitious. One or the other.
I know, right? You can see how this difference is ghastly and confusing to someone who is still unsure whether or not they even deserve the title "Writer" with a capital "W."
Over the summer I had the extreme fortune of stumbling upon a copy of Cathedral by Raymond Carver. I'm not saying I love the realism but I do find a bit of comfort in the simplicity and directness of his plots. Carver didn't mince words or bother with glided edges, like a Hemingway on food stamps. This was real life in snapshots. And it caught a lot of people's attention apparently.
But then, who doesn't love Irony? Maybe it is a vulgar cop-out to lean on the concept but it's just so damn fun, especially when it works really well. I guess that's the English major in me--the one who derides criticism but still can't help analyzing and breaking down. I get a cheeky sort of pleasure out of out deconstructing particularly thorny ironies.
And so I come back to the challenge that has been working over in my mind since that first class meeting. What do I write?
Every writer's style changes consistently with time. It's unavoidable. But two ideals as opposite as Realism and Irony seem to have no place in the same cannon. But...as has happened before...I might be wrong.
