I like to write about delusional people. Because we all are—about ourselves, our motivations, the people we love and loathe and lust after, the things we misremember as triumphs or humiliations. All of us see ourselves as the single, bright, burning star in the universe—a universe filled with nothing but. Some people are just a bit more flagrantly delusional than others. And I love them for it. My novels and short stories explore those sometimes agonizing, sometimes humorous, but always excruciatingly uncomfortable moments people experience when confronted by their true selves. (See Tudlong, Joe, narrator of Now It Gets Interesting.)
OK, so that’s the philosophical blahdy-blah. What kind of book/stories do I actually write? Well . . . that’s complicated.
—Though I don’t think it is, not really. Or at least it shouldn’t be. But, short answer: if you walked into a bookstore stocked exclusively with my works (ah, the dream!), you’d probably find yourself wandering the aisles for Literary Fiction, Humorous Fiction, Just Plain Fiction, Science Fiction, Fantasy Fiction . . .
Which is to say, genre conventions are tyranny. They enforce a rigid mediocrity on our culture, forbidding ambitious writers from really getting into the meat of a story—any story, set in any time or place. Some break out—think of your Chabons and Murakamis. That’s what I’m trying to do, and I hope you’re interested in coming along with me on that journey as it unfolds.
I might be forced to categorize my novels on Amazon and whatnot, but I don’t have to like it. All I care about is the people infesting my fiction—and if that fiction happens to take place on a sofa bed in Florida, or an alternate history Prohibition-era New York, or a magical world sprung whole from my imagination, so be it. The characters tell me what world they inhabit and how they’re dealing with life in that particular setting. And then they basically leave me to clean up the mess.
They’re sort of bastards that way.