There is something about the realist writer that appeals to
me. I enjoy reading their stories and books and poems concerning the lives and
struggles of genuine day-to-day people. The old drunk on the corner drinking
his wine from a paper sack, the man who can’t get a girl to go on a date with him,
and the single mom who’s at odds with her teenage, drug-addict daughter, these
are the people and stories I want to read. These are the people to which I most
relate—the real people.
I gain an immediate connection to these characters when they
have the same goals, desires, and heartaches as I do. I want to know about the
man working down at the local factory who is facing layoff. How does he cope? How
will he provide for his family? What are his options? Take me into the mind of
the school teacher turned prostitute. Make me interested in her thoughts and emotions.
Make me sense her emotional pain as she lies down with a total stranger for the
fifth time in one night. These are the stories I want to read.
I’ve always held the lives of the ordinary men and women in
high regard. These “ordinary” people make for extraordinary stories. No magic,
no science fiction, just realism. Solid, barebones, storytelling.
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