#lucy corin

I said I suspected I wrote fiction in the way they might practice their faith. Like you go to it for solace and not entirely knowing why you believe in it, but you do, and it gives you joy and is immensely private and also feels connective, and you struggle and work hard on your relationship with it, but it’s just a given in your life, a core, a constant, your sense of who you are that is not a problem to solve but a thing to be, so even if you know that others question its worth, that doesn’t seem to be the point. You just have it, it’s yours, and you practice it because, because, well, it’s not reasonable, it’s faith.

The thing I’ve never been able to figure out, in all my years of writing fiction is how anyone doesn’t just die, I mean not survive, if they don’t make art. I picture them and picture them—these people I write about who do not make art, and the people in the world I am trying to understand by imagining the people in my fiction. I make them as real to me as possible, not being one of them, but I cannot figure out, for the life of me, how anyone who doesn’t make art can survive.

Thanks for reading, guys!