Deception takes two. One intent on deceiving, another willing and able to be deceived.
On stage stands a very famous man, perhaps sensing his appeal is wearing thin, maybe fearing what the mileage on his tread could mean to his future prospects. The very famous man, brimming with intention, certain the willing and able are large in number, hurls an audacious lie to the wind, confident it will float as far and wide as a dandelion’s seeds.
In Springfield, they’re eating the dogs . . . they’re eating the cats.
He didn’t care it wasn’t true, didn’t give a thought to how many this preposterous yet vicious lie would hurt. The very famous man’s consort, undoubtedly sensing his railcar is hitched to a runaway train, surely fearing the coming wreck, nevertheless did not try jumping to safety. He stayed on board.
If I have to create stories . . . then that’s what I’m going to do.
Springfield, Ohio doesn’t deserve this. The Haitians who came to Springfield legally—to live and work and make the community their home in hopes of a brighter future—don’t deserve this. The very famous man and his consort could not care less.
Lies like these ones are akin to nuclear blasts, causing devastation at ground zero before showering toxic fallout over a wide radius. There are the immediate casualties. Then there’s the collateral damage.
Once toxins get up in the currents, there’s no telling where they’ll come down. I wrote recently about what prompted me to try my hand at writing fiction, the gut feeling that at this particular moment art is better suited than politics to curing what ails our society. I figured some readers would agree and some wouldn’t, but didn’t anticipate how my decision to write a novel would intersect with feelings about Springfield and its notorious tormentors.
One reader not only disagreed that art might be a better prescription than politics right about now, but told me bluntly that there are already too many people—powerful people like the very famous man and his consort—making up shit. As far as the reader was concerned, the last thing we need is me joining in, creating stories. Stick to facts, he implored me, someone needs to.
Several things bother me about this reader’s reaction. It conflates fiction writing and dishonesty, as if fiction and false mean the same thing. They do not. It also conflates factuality and truth. The two can go hand in hand, but that doesn’t make them exactly alike. Nonfiction is confined by facts, and that can prevent the whole truth from being told. Fiction is more unbounded, depending on imagination to identify and describe encompassing truths. Works of nonfiction or fiction both can lie. Either can speak truth.
Most troubling to me is how pervasive and persistent dishonesty can disparage and discourage imagination. If we stick to the facts before us and call off the search for yet undiscovered truths, hope for human progress is lost. If we trust only what currently is and stop trying to imagine what could be, the potential of civilization to advance is crippled.
Before it was given a bad name by the likes of the very famous man and his consort, make-believe meant visualizing a better place. There was a time when no virtual reality goggles were needed to envision the extraordinary. All it took was a fertile mind. And maybe a good book.
I just finished reading a book (fiction) that taught me so much, I think your desire to write a fiction book that will teach us a lesson is very appropriate!!!
Great perspective and I look forward to reading your book.