Stranger than fiction
The books on fiction writing I’m currently reading (“The Writing Book” by Kate Grenville if anyone cares to know – and I have also Stephen King’s “On Writing” headed my way courtesy of Amazon) make the point that the line between fiction and non-fiction has become somewhat blurred.
As I was posting yesterday about the paradox of anonymity i.e. how it can both let writers be both more honest and less honest at the same time, I was struck by the parallels with the concept of fiction itself.
Can fiction be as “true” (whatever that means) as non-fiction?
Well, like anonymity, I feel that fiction can both be more “true”, as well as also being less “true”, ideally both at the same time.
I feel that good or great fiction (which I realize is a very subjective concept) takes bits of ordinary life and strips off the mundane details. And in separating the wheat from the chaff, it leaves the kernel of existential truth behind.
It then builds on and exaggerates that kernel, perhaps by adding elements of the dramatic or the fantastical or the supernatural with the purpose of underlining that original essence or fragment of the human condition that we all share.
Stories that succeed in doing that strike a powerful chord in the reader. It’s as if the writer is plucking the strings of our souls, which vibrate in resonance with the flow of the words.
So in that sense, fiction can be both more “true” (to the essence) and less “true” (to the mundane) at the same time.
I don’t think this has to necessarily be a conscious effort on the part of the writer, or even that it needs to be. I think when you truly follow your muse and risk avoiding the “safe” choices, it just seems to happen sometimes.
In fact, it’s dashingly post-modern to take the stance that what a work “means” is actually created by the reader as they “interact with the text”.
Him: “I’ll take out the garbage in a minute, honey – I’m busy interacting with this text”.
Her: “Oh, really. How do you feel about interacting with the spare bed then too?”
Now, all joking aside, I do think there is some truth in that. The author is not the sole determiner of meaning, but there was probably some meaning they hoped the work conveyed when they wrote it.
Maybe their craft wasn’t strong enough to carry that meaning, but the intent was there.
And post-modernism can always devolve into the absurd solipsism that as all “meaning” is constructed, all works can thus mean “everything” (to someone) and thus also “nothing” (to anyone). Which makes it all rather cynical and pointless.
And I reject that.
I have something that I’m trying to say.
I only hope I can learn the craft well enough that I don’t kill it.