the rain i fall in

Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Steinbeck. These men wrote for the twenties and thirties.
John Knowles, Orwell, wrote for the forties and the fifties.
John Irving wrote for the Baby Boomers.
Yann Martel, he wrote for postmodernism and pluralism.

Who will I write for? My generation? Can my generation be said to have a voice? It seems all of us each have our own. It will take thousands of writers to speak for all the different voices. One for the goths and nihilists, one for the partyers and preppies and white girls who love black rap, one for those who give a damn... Bob Dylan, he can write for us, one for those who need a reason to wake up in the morning, one for those who want to smile though our teeth are covered in blood, one for those who find answers in people, one for those who find answers in books, one for those who drive hondas and live in the suburbs, one for those who will never have a real job, one for those who would rather be bums, one for those who want to write but cant find the words, and one for those who have words to say and no friends to listen. And perhaps this is the voice of my generation. We are not blue, or red, or yellow. We are all the colors, thrown together in a mudpuddle, and we make white. Our voice is chaotic, and many, but symphonies sing many parts, all at once, and we stand and applaud. We are independent and unique, all of us together. We are each raindrops; and our voices are the rain.