Why do I write texts about people in agony? Why do you read them?
I could say I don’t know why. I feel driven to do it and it feels right when I do. Lacan would surely say that it’s my symptom.
The characters in my stories suffer, but not by accident. They are not stupid, stumbling onto disaster by mistake. They seek it out. They go in search of their agonies, sometimes knowing why and sometimes knowing only that there is something unknown to be had there.
Sometimes my characters go to justice. Sometimes they go to truth. Sometimes to free themselves from the heavy burden they have become, the accretion of self they have acquired. Sometimes they go to the silence of pain, and sometimes to be enveloped in its great roar.
When I write, a void sits before me, opening up its black mouth, waiting for me to enter and to write it into the order that is a story. But I never order it completely; I leave the edges in chaos so I don’t betray the nature of the material I’ve used to build it with. This is a truth I cannot disavow. This is between me and story. You are not here yet. We have a sin to commit, I and the text. We have a master to serve. We have an agony to bring forth into the world out of a jumble of words and notions. We have a cave of pain to build.
Once you get it, the relationship you have with it is up to you.