Contemporary American Fiction

An appalling sameness has descended on contemporary American fiction. The subject matter rarely departs from the relationship between two lovers, regardless of their sexual preferences. This kind of story has a long history and its value cannot be denied. I would never suggest, for example, that the tragic love of Romeo and Juliet has no merit.

But I would suggest that an unending succession of love stories could eventually drive the reader from her book and into the world of unending reruns of I Love Lucy. It’s hard to contend that one is better than the other. Each, Lucy or the story, repeated long enough, could send the reader-viewer into catatonia.

Contemporary American fiction also suffers from a lack of place, which traditionally became known to the reader on the first or second page. As I read stories in literary journals, I keep looking for clues to the location of the characters. Where are these people? I ask. In Cleveland? In St. Louis? Or on one Jupiter’s many moons? I want to know where the characters happen to be. If the reader knows that detail, he can start to make more sense out of the actions and motives of the characters. If a love-sick chump lives in Kansas, he can’t end it all by jumping off the George Washington Bridge, can he?

But the one characteristic of contemporary fiction most likely to send me in search of a bridge is the typical story’s humorlessness. Who is teaching all the young writers that literary fiction cannot include humor and still remain literary? I know that someone is out there, slandering the reputations of Shakespeare, Mark Twain, Flannery O’Connor, John Kennedy Toole, and many more of the greatest writers in history.

I won’t put up with this. Like it or not, the stories that I write (and sometimes publish) will continue to take the humorous high road whenever appropriate. I have one or two of these waiting on my hard drive. Let the bidding begin. I hear one laugh. Do I hear two?