The picture is the picture. The story is the story.

Last week, I heard someone admit “You can buy the truth.” Or, better said, “You can pay to publish fiction as fact.” It was no shock. This has been going on for years, but no one wanted to know about it when I jabbed my fingers at this sad little wound. With generous helpings of wilful ignorance, our heads in the sand we pass the days and months. Reality is bought and sold for a small fee every minute and we gladly finance this charade.

It is maddening.

As maddening as a Spring that is not Spring. An open road that is closed for no reason.

The price tag dangles, and spins in the breeze. The truth is on sale. You can buy two and get one free, just for today.

I was taught to write what I know, to gnaw on the bones and present the fruits of this labor in a humble bowl, with as few words as possible, without explanation or apology. The picture is the picture. The story is the story. The song is the song. You are not there to defend it, or explain how personal it is. It must stand on its own, on the truth that it speaks to, the very marrow of your experience, or what you have witnessed — the messy, molten center that throbs and wobbles as it is read.

This is the only way to write authentically. If you just want to entertain, the truth is a nuisance, a gnat in the room to ignore.