I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not entirely interested in reading fiction anymore. Daniel Pinchbeck said something similar recently:
When I was in my twenties, literature was my ruling passion, and my heroes were writers like Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Virginia Woolf and Henry Miller. I longed to emulate the passionate intensity of their prose, and the “negative capability” which infused their characters with recognizable life. When I passed through the crucible of my own transformational process, I lost interest in novels and discovered a new pantheon of intellectual heroes. These days, I find the same level of electrical engagement that I used to find in novels in the works of thinkers whose central theme is the evolution and possible extension of human consciousness. This varied group is made up of mystics, physicists, philosophers, cosmologists and paleontologists — the roster includes Rudolf Steiner, Carl Jung, Edward Edinger, Jean Gebser, Teilhard de Chardin, F David Peat, Sri Aurobindo and Gerald Heard.
Reading and debating fiction seems like a peacetime activity, an absolute luxury. I don’t like Jonathan Lethem much either (see the link), and for the same reasons, but man there are worse things. Not to mention worse writers. We’re in the middle of a slow war—the environment is crashing and we’re the enemy. These are pretty desperate times so reading fiction seems less important to me than reading non-fiction about the mixture of science and spirituality—most of the stuff I read. Stuff that’s actually fundamentally usable. Back in the abduction, UFO, new physics, DMT research, etc. saddle again. I sometimes feel unfaithful if I’m not reading fiction. There’s just so much I haven’t read. But it’s really not as fun or enlightening to me right now. I’ve finally admitted it.
That said, I’ve got three novels waiting for me that I’m looking forward to. Anti-Christ: A Satirical End of Days by Matthew Moses, want to read that for the title alone, Fires by Nick Antosca, and The Greatest Show on Earth by Daniel Scott Buck. And I have no interest in writing anything but fiction because it’s what I know how to do. And I still have the feeling that fiction can have a different impact on people than a non-fiction polemic about how we need to change our ways.
The Beverly Hills library has become the ultimate place to write. It now has a coffee house attached to it. Still strange to be writing in Beverly Hills:
Library’s nice though.
So, I’m probably back here. I like writing like this. There’s stuff that I think about that purely has its place on a blog.