I like writing fiction.  I like the freedoms associated with it… the freedom to give more room to the creative and poetic and sheer love of language.  I enjoy the attempt to express universals by describing particulars, to express the facts with fictions, to communicate a greater truth by telling a smaller lie.

But I have particulars of my own… things I have seen and done… things that have educated me, challenged me, wounded me, changed me, brought me pain or exhilaration or joy.  And even if I do try to deliver the record of those events with good style, I don’t have to make stuff up.  I don’t have to have a clearly defined plot or an ending.  In real life there are no conclusions, there is endless change.

So I also like to write things that are something other than fiction… I won’t say they are always facts (as we usually and often absurdly think of that term)… they may be just my thoughts or opinions or analysis or emotional responses, but my thoughts really did happen, my opinions were really formed, and my limited human mind did really interpret events and experiences to have meanings.

Non-fiction pieces