Fiction’s about what it is to be a human being. – David Foster Wallace
We see things with eyes that are tattered and scarred. The things we write are not what the truth is. We don’t know the truth we only see the words for what they are, a story about people, things and places. We see this through eyes that we’ll never truly look through. We see it in the days that go by in each page and the way the plot turns.
It is the cataclysm of our lives, these stories. Writing things about people who don’t know us, never will and we stare down at them from on high like gods picking them apart.
We move through our scenes, as the ghost in the room. Moving things around, making every detail come out the way we want it. We see something not quite right and it moves a hair to the left in our head, but did it really move?
It is important that we know these things. It is important we know where our MC left her purse in the second chapter, the note from the killer in chapter eight is with that purse.
We may find out in the first chapter our hero/oine is fond of drinking and doesn’t quite feel drunk when they’ve had too much. That could be useful later in the book when we see them stumbling out of the tavern and into a group of soldiers that they are hiding from.
The little things we see, or don’t see the reader does see. It is this smoke and mirrors the hiding things without really hiding them that makes our stories great. We know when the MC is to destroy the big monster at the end of the book because it’s already written in our outline.
Walking through our distant land of far off places we see things no one else sees, know things no one else will and yet, there are times we feel unfulfilled.
Our lives are incomplete after we finish our stories, it is empty. The ghost has moved to another house to haunt another family, to move other things.
We still sit from on high like gods over the landscape, but are we gods?
What is fiction to you? Answer in the comments.