The weekend is as good a time as any to think about literature — what it is, what it means, whether what we write counts. As such, I bring you some thoughts from jota:
Is the message that literature implores important as it attempts to convey some type of meaning of why we are here? Is that the purpose? Is it the ability to kindle thought, to remind us that there are nobler pursuits? Is it the autobiography of the human condition? Maybe.
Or else, instead, it’s just a flight of fancy, taking us to places we’ve never been before and will never go, except inside our reading heads. Or is it nothing more than plain ego stroking of the self-absorbed (read: tortured writer) artist?
Is it art?
Is it fashion?
Or, just plain embarrassing entertainment?
Does writing equal literature?
How? Why, or why not?
Why do you write?