Well, it was interesting, and fun, and I think I learned a thing or two, but I think it’s time that I come out and admit that I am done with the Pulp Rev movement.
I have nothing against the people in the movement, and I wish them the best. But it has become increasingly clear to me that the ideals of Pulp Rev and my own convictions are irreconcilably at odds.
What it comes down to is that, for me, the work is all that matters. You follow the story, you don’t lead it or push it. Fiction has an inviolate invisible architecture and that deep structure is the only and the absolute law.
It’s really that simple. I don’t write for an audience and I don’t write for myself. I write to satisfy the gravid inevitability of the potential becoming the actual. The story calls the tune, I just dance to it.
When I am writing I am not speaking. I am listening. It’s not something that I do, it is something that is done to me. Done through me. I don’t create, I uncover. I dive, wide-eyed, into a clear and secret sea, sinking into blood-warm waters in search of wonders.
And then I describe what I see.
That’s all I’ve got. I tell the truth and make it rhyme.
I understand what other writers are talking about, I think, about making choices and writing one story and not another based on this value or that conviction, but that’s not something I can do.
I tell the stories that I am given to tell, as they are given to me. Or I stay silent. Those are my options.