Someone Misunderstands the Purpose of Books

Did you hear an odd sound early this morning, sort of like dead souls weeping mixed with the sound of live people gnashing their teeth and howling? Yeah, me, too. I figured out what caused it.

Let me back up a bit to say that I believe the purpose of art of any kind- visual art, music, writing of all sorts- is to make us think and feel things we might not otherwise think or feel. I sing you a song about despair, and though you are not me, you know exactly how I felt. I paint you a picture of rage, and though you have never raged, you know it in your bones. I write you a book about failure and redemption, and though you have never fallen far enough down to need redemption, you appreciate it greatly.

That's the purpose of art, to open your mind and stuff things in there you didn't already know. Really, if you already knew it, why do you need to learn about it . . . oh, learning. That's right. Why would I want to learn anything, I already know it all? I just want it confirmed, over and over and over again.

You should be able to order books the same way - buffet style, almost. You should be able to call up a variety of authors and put in an order for the book that would suit your fancy to a T. You should be able to pick out the characters down to their nose and hobbies. "Yes, I'd like a strong heroine, but don't touch the feminist mold - she can be pretty if you like but not stunningly pretty - she's a good sort of person but don't bother making her an angel. Let her get into trouble and hurt feelings and learn from them, like any other human being. Oh, and do you think she could write blog posts on the weekend?"

You ought to have the freedom to direct the general plot of the story - leaving room for little surprises and of course a spectacular climax that not even the author saw coming. "It needs to have a mystery lurking beneath an almost benign (but not boring) everydayness - something that will pop out in the middle of the twenty-first chapter and scare the daylights out of me. Not anything gory - just something devastating and unique, something unexpected. And don't constantly hint at it, either. Let me be naturally curious and make my own speculations without the crippling help of the narrator."

And especially, you should be able to regulate the Secular/Religious flow throughout the narrative. "Don't even think about moralizing the ending. Oh, don't let that stop you from putting in true Christians - a good number of them wouldn't hurt, the real, faulty kind that genuinely love and often don't know how. Some unredeemed characters would be nice too. And no cheap shots against true Christianity but have no worries of offending me by pointing out the ridiculousness of empty religion."

Look, author, don't surprise me, don't teach me, don't challenge my presumptions, don't tweak my prejudices, don't show me anything but that I am always, always, always and ever right. And be fucking brilliant doing it. I want a masterpiece of pedestrianism, a work of bland art, cleverly pointless drivel just for me. I want to learn nothing, I want to leave this encounter unchanged, I want you to write the literary equivalent of Saltine crackers and Campbell's chicken soup.

Unfuckingbelievable.