The piles of books around me keep growing – by my bed, on the shelf behind my desk, inside a cupboard that I try to ignore. Everywhere I look there are books that I want to read. Books friends have recommended, books I have read about in the newspaper, on Goodreads, at the library. Then of course, there are the classics – books I should read to be a well rounded, well educated person. Surely there are more than enough good books in the world to keep me reading for the rest of my life. With this abundance of good literature, why do we need more, why do people keep writing novels? In fact, isn’t the endless supply of new novels just contributing to our collective angst, the feeling that we will never be able to get through our reading lists, the growing piles by our bed? Perhaps.
But every once in a while, I come across an idea that I haven’t yet seen well explored in print, a story I want to read but haven’t yet found. As stories are simply reflections of our ever changing world and lives, so we will always need more stories, written in our current vernacular, about our current questions, technologies, crises.
I am working on one of those stories. I am asking the question; what happens when two people, who come from radically different cultures, with different ideas of justice and revenge, who marry out of a common love, must confront an act of violent injustice within their family? This will be another novel, an incremental addition to the piles of books we all face. But the world needs more stories. At least, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.