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Incestuous Art

That's a terrible title; it really is.   I'll explain in a minute.  I never thought of myself as a crank,  but the older I get, there's more things that really upset me. 

I never liked stories about writers.  Get it?  It's a Writer, writing about a writer.  Or an opera about a musician.  Or a play about a play.  Or a film about a film- maker.  Or a piece of art, a portrait of someone drawing a portrait.  Come on, I think, you guys need to get out more!  You'd think that the only world a playwright knew about was the Theatre!  It a writer knew about, was the world of writing. 

It must be so tempting, because of course a writer knows about writing.  It isn't very hard for me to get inside the head of another—mediocre—writer. 

Actually, the Muppet Show is, in some ways, about putting on a variety show.  The reason it works so well is the guest stars.

Well, just today an idea came to me about writing a Story about a story about Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein.  I don't know enough about her to write a story about her, and now that I've told you about how much I dislike that niche area of literary art, I couldn't go through with it.  But for a short while, there was the distinct danger that a story about Mary Shelley would rise from the ashes. 

K



This post first appeared on Fiction From K Brown, please read the originial post: here

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Incestuous Art

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