When I’m disappointed by a novel, why am I disappointed? And it’s really something so simple. For it to be a worthwhile novel, there has to be a reason for it to be in written language. In 1820, that was not one of the demands because there was no other option. That’s what there was as a medium. But now there are all these other mediums. I could hear a song. I could watch a film. I could be on the Internet. You have to give me a reason why you have written this down. It doesn’t have to have an elaborate literary structure. Some of the most simple books… you could make into a movie, but you would be losing something. It had to be in sentences. The sentences were necessary. That’s all people want from fiction, right? The feeling of it being necessary.
Sweet username—Cam would be proud. So as far as celebrity composites go, it’s fair to say that I picture Cam, in the novel, as a cross between teenage Jodie Foster and Mary Stuart Masterson (particularly during her Fried Green Tomatoes days). MSM was too old, then, to play a teenager, but the face and hair and physicality feel about right to me—especially if you cross them with teenage JF.
'Collective' or otherwise, I think art, as a pursuit, has a place and purpose in the 'public' sphere. There are few other known forces in the world that can provide such comfort, solace, provocation, humility, inspiration, arousal, wonder, and self-discovery.