Reading Red

Went to something called LitFest in Kansas City yesterday. Tents were erected on a blocked-off street of the Plaza, tents filled with books and writers and readers. Yeah, that's the stuff.

But was it?

From the poetry stage, a red-faced man with a jumped-up Southern accent read his poems to a sparse crowd, so impressed with his own cleverness he could barely see around his ego to the page.

In the main tent, a red-haired woman described experiences that led to a best-selling memoir. Her manner of speaking left no doubt she did not write this or any other book herself. Later, Amazon reveals a credited co-author and bizarre reverberations from the living and the telling of these tales. Google reveals huge controversy wrapped in shiny marketing-department packaging, tied with the ribbon of a movie in the works.

And then, we come to the literary writers. Ah, yes. Red-eyed men and women who make words dance for their own pleasure, who seem to believe that impenetrable equals good. Their worst slams include the words "commercial" or "mainstream" or (God forbid) "popular." They hold panel discussions on "advancing beyond meta-language."

I just want to tell stories, stories that entertain people and maybe show them parts of themselves they don't usually see but recognize instantly. I want to write sentences that draw pictures, clear pictures that make sense. I want those sentences and those stories to be real and true and mine.

Today, that seems like a lot to ask.