We Mormons don’t need great writers who remake genres and transcend the particulars of their work (though please, please, please)
We just need adequate writers who can give some expression to the sweetness of life as a Mormon.
The sweetness of-
leaning in the pew where your family sits and your Bishop gets up–he’s a bluff-faced man with gray hair and a salty blue-collar mustache, he talks in the slow, Spanish-accented way that even Anglos do around here–two days ago he fixed your plumbing, did a good job, tried to bargain the price down after while you tried to bargain it up–he makes his announcements, he asks all you who read the Book of Mormon by year’s end to sign a list in his office (he’ll send it to the Prophet as a Christmas present), though, earnestly, he says he’s not far along himself. He was called a few weeks ago, which is the first time you’ve ever seen him in a suit.
He sits back down, the priests stand to break the bread.