As I write this, London is bracing for a possible third night of riots and looting. I’m not in one of hottest areas, but the PC World down the street had its window smashed (they didn’t get in) and a local gay bookshop also had its window broken but no stock was taken (I guess the looters aren’t big on reading—or at least not big on reading gay literature). My gym and many shops here in the center have closed early and this is the first time I can remember seeing more than two police officers on Tottenham Court Road.
What does this have to do with writing? Only that maybe people like me, who tend to love books and live in our heads a lot of the time are always surprised when people’s animal nature comes to the surface so easily.
As you probably have seen on the news, last night groups of young people threw stones and rubbish bins and whatever they could find, not only at police but also at fire fighters trying to put out fires at buildings that had shops on the ground level and families living above them. It’s hard to imagine anything more mindless or wanton.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s one reason I love fiction; real humans are a pretty big disappointment sometimes.
