Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

Stephen King

Fiction writing is a strange business when you think about it. You sit down and weave a network of lies to explore far deeper truths.

Wally Lamb

A new year has begun. With it comes a new bright and shiny opportunity for us all to push our writer’s journey further and deeper than the previous year. Though few entries of my journey littered these pages, I wrote with passion and edited without remorse. It was through the creative process of editing that I fully comprehended how humans have an amazing propensity to spin a tale – feel free to insert ‘tell lies’ here. Think back to when you were a kid. Given you possess a writer’s gene, I bet you excelled at composing a believable tale at the drop of hat after being caught breaking one of many parental or social rules.

How much better was that lie when you had ‘wait-until-your-father-gets-home’ time to construe a truly plausible story to save your hide? Beyond those backside saving deceptions, take a longer mental journey through childhood and conjure those magnificent make-believes that captivated you for hours. That fingerling you caught became as big as a tuna. The dancing fairies and the unicorn in the forest were as real as you. The friend who played with you in the sandbox was not imaginary.

Then by some cruel social construct, we are emotionally pushed to grow-up and squash that wonderful, creative imagination. Imaginary friends disappeared and Neverland imploded as indoctrination into the real-world began. On the surface, anyway. Someone else’s lies were perfectly acceptable to ingest in the form of a book.

Shelves upon shelves of fiction in the library kept the sparks of imagination alive. Pages filled with lies about a man named Scrooge and his terrifying ghosts, about the struggles of the March girls and their mother’s survival while waiting for their absent father to return from war. Charlotte’s Web was the first book that made me cry. Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting Of Hill House scared the crap out of me and I slept with the light on for a week. A fact not fiction.

How about Mary Shelly’s expression of her own struggles with life through Frankenstein? A powerful piece of writing for me. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, or Roald Dahls James And The Giant Peach or The BFG allowed readers of all ages to return the mesmerizing world of story.

How many of us dove into the writings of Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games and George R.R. Martin’s The Game Of Thrones and read just one more chapter into the wee hours of the morning? When I discovered Dean Koontz, I was lost for hours. Marvelled at his creativity and descriptions and ability to make me cringe.

In all the millions of books with their trillions of pages, what was at the heart of great storytelling? What was missing in not so great storytelling?

The artful engagement of subterfuge. The author’s mastery at ‘weaving a network of lies to explore far deeper truths’. A masterful suspension of disbelief that twisted our guts and made our hearts race in fear. Ones that evoked tears of empathy or sympathy for even for the slimiest of creatures. The ability to infuse our hearts with love and shrink in disgust at a character’s actions or words.

To aspire to become a socially acceptable liar is a strange goal to admit aloud. It is immeasurably easier to tell the boring truth than spinning a plausible and cohesive whooper of a tale. The achievement of such an accolade takes skill. A talent honed through ongoing hard work, determination, and an openess to trusted constructive criticism. The casting off of self-doubt.

Weaving the lie starts with being brave; becoming that bruised, terrified, or awestruck child to facilitate speaking your truth. Expose your adult anger, admiration, lust, and lunacy. Tell the story through caricatures of those who have loved, offended, charmed, and betrayed you. After all, it’s just fiction, right?

Thanks for listening. Cheers.

S.C. Roberts