Disagreement can be productive of new ideas in spite – or because? – of a surface-cracking, fiction against truth, fiction against fiction, truth against truth, a series of frictions that are often more productive than any slip-slide of surface agreement. Disagreement, indeed, can be a form of brainstorming that tussles between already grooved paths, then folding itself into unexpected, yet-to-be-grooved, story-lines, one such story-line’s potential being along the still emerging real-timeline of one’s own future life, however Autumnal it is or even Winter-terminal. A vexed texture of text.
Today, I was fatefully given the unexpected opportunity to append my simple agreement regarding the need for the Avant Garde sensibility in some Genre fiction — and this relates to my earlier description of the relationship I have had with the Avant Garde over the many years of my writing career.
Indeed, I suspect I belong there, not here. I know I have wasted my life thinking I was writing something when all the time I was writing something else. Neither of them being anything much to write home about.
A footnote to a life’s disagreement – with myself!