The Misfortune of Fools

An experiment in story telling

Why I’m Writing Fiction on Substack

You know my bread and butter is nonfiction—but I love writing fiction. So when I read a piece in The New Yorker asking, “Is the great American novel being written on Substack?”, I thought: why not publish more fiction here?

This platform lets me test ideas in real time. I can engage directly with readers—people who care about the craft, who don’t mind telling me when something falls flat or when it soars. Most importantly, I don’t have to worry about the gatekeepers.

The Problem with 'Diverse' Fiction Today

Let’s be honest: the world of fiction is still dominated by literary agents and publishers who push ‘diverse’ voices—so long as they reflect back their own worldview. They want Black and Brown writers, sure—but only if we’re palatable, digestible, easy to sell to white, middle-class readers. It’s not about complexity or challenge. It’s about comfort.

Take The Kite Runner, for example. It did tremendously well in the West, but ask many Afghans what they think of it, and they’ll tell you it’s infuriating. It doesn’t reflect them. It reflects what Westerners want to believe about them. It caters to a particular appetite—one that loves trauma narratives from faraway lands, so long as they reaffirm Western moral superiority. It’s a book that policy wonks read on their flight to Kabul thinking, this will explain the place to me. It doesn’t. It just reinforces their prejudices.

In my case, it was Monica Ali’s Brick Lane that left a bad taste. I don’t say this to throw shade on the author—but many Bengalis were upset not because of the writing, but because of who the book was clearly written for. It catered to the sensibilities of middle-class white women, not to the community it claimed to represent. That kind of performance—writing to satisfy a gaze, to fit into a box—makes my blood boil.

If I wrote a story right now about an ISIS bride who finds liberation by falling in love with Andy, a British aid worker with a beard and a saviour complex—it would probably get published. These tired tropes sell. But I don’t want to be a monkey boy dancing for a crowd in a circus.

These kinds of books are like the vindaloo you get at those tourist-trap restaurants on Brick Lane. It’s not food—it’s performance. It’s made in England for white folks. No South Asian I know eats vindaloo. When I visit my dad’s restaurant, I eat the staff curry. That’s the real stuff.

Where Are Our Richard Wrights, Baldwins, and Roys?

It seems like we’ve lost the appetite—or the patience—for voices like Richard Wright, James Baldwin, V.S. Naipaul, or Arundhati Roy. Writers who didn’t just represent identity—they interrogated it. Writers who were angry, flawed, brave.

Babel by R.F. Kuang was a bright exception—a novel steeped in Fanonian thought, deeply political. I enjoyed it. My only criticism? The protagonist, while written as male, felt unrealistically androgynous. Maybe that was intentional—but it jarred.

So how do we reach people today with bold, truthful fiction?

Writing Like Chester Himes

Maybe we need to take a page from Chester Himes. He didn’t wait for American publishers to accept him. He wrote action-packed stories for the French market. And those stories—raw, hilarious, full of subtext—eventually made their way back to America. A Rage in Harlem is a masterpiece. A caper with teeth. Read it and you’ll see what I mean. It’s entertainment, sure—but it brims with social commentary.

That’s the sort of storytelling I admire. That’s what I want to do.

Authenticity or Assimilation?

But let’s be real—many of the Black and Brown writers who do make the cut today don’t reflect their communities. They reflect what the industry wants from them. The ‘ethnic novel’ becomes a grift. A performance. They’re adopted by white society like the lapdogs in Mansfield Park—there to be petted.

I once had dinner with a prominent editor—he’ll remain nameless. He came from a traditional South Asian background. After Oxbridge, he set out to erase every trace of that background. His speech, his mannerisms, his entire presence—he sounded whiter than white. On the phone, you wouldn’t guess where he came from. He had forgotten how to code-switch. He told me that’s what it took to make it. To rise, he had to murder part of himself.

And he taught others to do the same—including a white, working-class woman he took under his wing. Years later, I met her again. She had transformed into a posh literary editor. She’d dumped her boyfriend, changed her hair, her accent, her worldview. She had mutilated herself—not physically, but culturally. All to belong. Maybe that’s the human condition—or maybe it’s the worst thing we can do: become fakes, in pursuit of a glass of wine and approval from literary elites. Looking back, maybe she saw me as a project too. Her protégé. Her next act of reinvention.

The Problem With Middle East ‘Experts’

And then, of course, there’s the Middle East. You hear it all the time: “The Middle East isn’t what you think—it has nightclubs! Come to Beirut!” But these so-called experts never engage with the conservative, religious side of the region. They cherry-pick. They sell half-truths.

I have a special hatred for Allegra Stratton’s Muhajababes. That book is so tone-deaf it makes me want to curse. And yet, it got published. You can even buy it in Turkmenistan.

These writers cling to a fantasy of the Middle East as a place of wine-drinking poets and homoerotic verse—before Islam came and ruined everything. They love Mutanabbi and pre-Islamic poetry, but don’t know the Qur’an—the peak of Arabic literature—or the Burdah, the most recited poem in the language. That’s like doing an English Lit degree and skipping Shakespeare. And yet, it happens. All the time. It’s not good enough.

Why I’m Publishing Fiction Here

So I’m done waiting for permission. I’ve finished The Misfortune of Fools, a sequel to Darkness Inside. I’m going to publish it here on Substack, chapter by chapter—like Dickens did. For the fun of it. For the love of the form.

I believe it’s a good book. I’ve tested it on many readers (you know who you are). If you enjoy it, share it. That means more than you know. Paid subscribers will get early access, and later, I’ll release it to free subscribers too. I’ll be experimenting—adding illustrations, trying new things. Most of all, I’ll be relying on your feedback.

This is fiction without compromise. No gatekeepers. No pandering. Let’s see where it takes us.

For those reading this as a forward, my name is Tam Hussein an award winning investigative journalist with a particular focus on conflict. The Blood Rep is my newsletter that covers security, jihadism, militancy and criminal networks. Do read my books To The Mountains, The Travels of Ibn Fudayl and The Darkness Inside.