A good story is a dirty secret that we all share. It’s what makes guilty pleasures so pleasurable, but it’s also what makes them so guilty. A juicy tale reeks of crass commercialism and cheap thrills. We crave such entertainments, but we despise them. Plot makes perverts of us all. LEV GROSSMAN

“Munasaragina is a whore…” This is going to be the first line to the next fiction piece that I am going to write. It is not going to be a story necessarily served at the heights of literary richness, with melted candy of heavy words as desert. But I can assure you that it will “reek of dirt”. Children are going to drown in open sewers. Fathers are going to bed their daughters. This is going to make it a good story.

Two things today: We are all perverts, and, we write for a perverted lot. Perverts why? Perverts because bad writing is always good writing. Our readers love it when we touch places that are ‘inappropriate’ with our pens. Pens that draw perfectly evil pictures are adored pens. It is like masochism hides like an undiscovered virus in our blood. Tales told of death, sex, gunshots through the eyeball, rape, murder…these are stories that ignite our mojo to read. We love to read and write what we despise. The most read blogs or books are not those that tell you how often you should wash your hands, or how to make a good conversation. They are those that are redolent of controversy.

The morality of the story has so much died. It is no longer about the lessons that a story teaches you…it is about how interestingly evil and controversial the story was…how much it kept you transfixed from word to word through a plot whose controversy grows from a scene to another. In the privacy of our reading chambers, shyly, we crave for tears, pain, hurt. We pray to those that control the pen to kill the hero and give us the villain. Forever after is no longer what brings tears of satisfaction to our eyes. It is the unlikely, the part where soldiers fire a bullet through the eyeball of an innocent child.  Stories with characters that live forever after are slowly loosing the crowd.

That being said, what does that speak of us and to us writers…what does it say of our readers? Does the happy story bore them? This desire for a story with a fractured plot, is the reader becoming too vicious? Do they just want the writer to rattle life a little bit, add a little salt, sugar and pepper into it? Are they really perverts? What is it about sadness in literature that has us riveted?

Or is it true that literature allows us to accept evils that are within us that we fight so hard to hide in a society that expects us to conform to ‘the good’. Is literature a dark window on the soul that reveals more about what is bad in human nature than what is good? Whatever happened to the happy stories?