Just Makin' That Up
Eric Wilson
Yesterday, a person I respect—a Christian man who does not read fiction—told me that "make believe" stories are much easier to write than "real" ones, since they have no boundaries and no need for accurate details. What do you think?
I'm a full-time writer. I have a NY Times bestseller to my name and ten novels in print. My professional career started, however, with nonfiction articles that dealt with subjects ranging from travel in China to sex education in the home. As a nonfiction writer, I was treated as an expert on my given subject. The "real" aspect of my writing made me an honorable figure, despite my double-digit bank balance and the holes in my jeans. As a novelist I've had my share of rabid fans and acclaim, but the esteem once given writers of fiction is now attached primarily to their sales numbers, advances, and bestsellerdom. Whereas novelists were respected social figures in times past, they are now treated as entertainment throwaways (if they are not successful), pop culture rock stars (if they are), or as anachronisms who are as interesting, if not as pitiful, as two-headed snakes and electric typewriters.
My own resume has taught me that writing both fiction and nonfiction requires discipline and hard-earned skills. Nevertheless, here are some questions prompted by my friend's comment.
Can "make believe" stories communicate "real" truths?
Quick. Don't think too long. Name a book that has impacted you. Name a movie that changed the way you think.
If it weren't for novels and "make believe" films, how much would you know about ancient Greece, China, the Middle East? About England's royalty? About courtroom proceedings? Why did my grandfather, a WWII vet, never share his own wartime experiences with me until after I took him to see the fictitious Saving Private Ryan?
It's hard for me to understand why certain people fail to see the power of "make believe." Does a college degree make one immune to that power? I graduated with a Bachelor of Arts and with honors. I still get misty-eyed watching the new TV series Parenthood. Sure, some writers take liberties with the details, but the art of storytelling has brought to life for many of us the realities of the Crusades, the Civil War, and the mysterious life of the geisha. Storytellers have twisted listeners' ears for thousands of years with Greek and Norse mythology. Traditional songs and masters' paintings have kept alive the exploits of legendary men and women. For the past century, moviemakers have revived old tales and churned out new ones.
Many of the religious people I grew up around believed we didn't have time for "make believe." Some considered fiction not only "pretend" but outright "lies." It was a waste of time for those who ought to be heavenly minded. The irony, of course, is that most of these people were the ones quick to jump on the anti-Harry Potter bandwagon. Apparently, God's power was not able to work through novels, but when it came to the devil . . . Well, clearly evil was a force to be reckoned with between the covers of a storybook. Or a movie. Or pop music. And the list goes on.
Through Parenthood, I was introduced to the issue of Asperger's, a mild form of autism. The struggle of two parents trying to help their son drew me in, and then my mind engaged and nudged me to do some nonfiction research—research I would've never done otherwise. After reading Khaled Hosseini's novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns, I found myself looking up the treatment of women in Muslim cultures. In both cases, the fictional truths drew me into the factual details.
It doesn't always work that way. Sometimes fiction alone does the trick. My wife and I watched Lars and the Real Girl a few months ago, both moved deeply by the story of a young man going to extreme measures to reconnect with society. He is loved back to health by a community willing to look beyond his idiosyncrasies and walk with him through those. The truths of unconditional love, family, and redemption shone through this story of "make believe"—even though I never felt a need to research blow-up dolls.
Are the details in fiction less important than in nonfiction?
A central premise in my friend's statement about fiction was that the details are less important. I've encountered this theory before. It sounds good. Sounds logical. Yet I wholeheartedly disagree. Yes, the specifics of a nonfiction book must be rock solid, but I believe the details in fiction are just as important, even if for different reasons.
I still remember sitting in a movie theater as a teenager and watching Romancing the Stone. It was a fun film, full of action and humor. Despite these qualities, it failed to hold my attention. It never caused me to willingly suspend disbelief. Why? Because the lights along the aisles kept flickering. That's right. That little nuisance ruined the film for me.
In the same way, I find myself reading certain novels that are full of "flickering lights." Maybe the author is a lazy writer, scattering adverbs ceaselessly, endlessly. Maybe the author forgot to check the spelling of Lynyrd Skynyrd while mentioning one of the band's songs. Maybe the protagonist failed to catch a clue that was obvious to the reader and to the other characters in the book. All of these quibbles can be flickers that break the mood for me, thus spoiling the magic. A novelist does not rely on cold hard facts to bowl over a reader, but on the willing suspension of disbelief earned by strong craft, emotional honesty, and details that bring settings to life in the reader's imagination.
I have over a million words in print, totaling over 3500 pages. On average, I read 1000 pages of research for every novel I write, gleaning tidbits that will make my stories ring true, harvesting historical mysteries that can be woven into my fictional plots. Many authors I know do volumes of research for their fiction. Others do not. It's not a requirement, of course, but readers are sticklers for details, and there's a reason I have stopped reading novels by those authors who fail to douse the "flickering lights."
Is our culture obsessed with knowledge (facts) over wisdom (experience)?
I spent some of my formative years overseas. Abstract learning was valued highly. Fiction and poetry, music and art—they were valuable building blocks for the heart and mind of a child. When I moved back to the US, I found that the average American had a myopic view of the world. Everything revolves around our country, our history, our sports figures and entertainment. It's understandable in a land as large as ours, and other countries can be just as patriotic. Yet, by necessity, most of them are familiar with the cultures and languages of those around them. What do I really know about Canada? Not much.
Western thinking focuses on the concrete. We pride ourselves on knowledge. We are tested on our ability to regurgitate facts. The attempts at compartmentalizing mind, soul, and body have given us keen insights into science and psychology. On the downside, we have become fractured in our thinking. We have a hard time staying focused. It is difficult for us to hear a Sunday morning sermon, or to read To Kill a Mockingbird, and know how to apply its principles to our daily lives. By splintering the various aspects of our natures, we have found trouble unifying our own feelings and beliefs, while often justifying ethical and moral violations on the job and in the home.
What's my point? Many of us judge fiction and nonfiction by this concrete, fact-based, compartmentalized mindset. We sometimes miss the deep truths in a fictitious work because we discount it as "make believe." We devalue stories and idolize knowledge. I, for one, came out of college feeling educated yet short on practical experience. My puffed-up knowledge came across as cocky to those who could speak from the wisdom of on-the-job experience.
Don't get me wrong. I do believe in the power of facts, education, and research. As a writer, I apply it to my storytelling every day. As a reader, though, the novels that stay with me for months and years are those grounded in the abstract wisdom of life.
Does one's preference for nonfiction negate the value of good fiction?
Perhaps, in a perfect world, nonfiction and fiction go hand in hand. They are—if you'll forgive the analogy—the male and female partners in this partnership of education and entertainment.
As a boy, I went to my dad for the tools and know-how to build a doghouse. When it came time to put something in that doghouse, it was my mother who arranged the soft blankets and food bowl. Dad met the practical needs, while Mom met the emotional. It's a simplistic example, but I think there's some truth in it. We need both. Both have a part to play. Neither role is without its troubles, and neither is less important.
Fact or fiction? It's a marriage made in heaven—with some intriguing spiritual parallels that could apply—and comes with all the tension of a healthy, balanced relationship. I like both. I read both. I write both. If I had to live with only one, though, I'd choose fiction in a heartbeat.
Or maybe I'm just makin' that up.
