The Truth About Fiction

A young friend of mine raised the hypothetical question of whether fiction really has any relevance in the modern world beyond mere entertainment. Information is truth, and fiction is, by definition, untruth. Fabrication. Deception.

With all the propaganda being generated for political purposes, with all the distortions and outright lies being used to manipulate people’s actions, opinions and votes, isn’t there some kind of social imperative to cultivate critical thinking and strive for truth, rather than to muddy things further with obscure messages buried in fictional worlds? Moreover, of what use is literature in a world where the visual image and Twitter rule?

Oy. Where to begin.

Human beings have always told stories. It is our way of making sense of the world. Even scientists tell stories. They take a body of experimental evidence and create a narrative to weave it all together into a coherent explanation of events. When a new piece of evidence emerges, the story is modified to accommodate it.

“Fiction” is our way of distinguishing between stuff that is mostly true and stuff that is mostly made-up. But the line is very fuzzy. Historical and biographical novels– based on facts as we know them but with imagination filling in the gaps — and Fox Network News are good examples.

But even fiction which pretends to be nothing more than imagination is far from being just fantasy. Good fiction, although it may be a story about something that never happened to people who never existed, is filled with truth. That is why the story resonates with us. Why we relate to the characters, why it makes us think. Fiction is filled with truths about ourselves, our relationships, our hopes, fears and beliefs. A good work of fiction can help us understand the world, how others live and feel, what could be and what mustn’t be, in a way that strict documentary can’t. (Although the best documentaries present their facts in the form of an engaging story.)

As a form of information transfer, fiction communicates the author’s values, perceptions, vision of what the world is or should be, or might be, and in sharing these works, readers communicate to one another that they agree or disagree. Yes, we could also do this reasonably effectively with essays and studies, but that’s not the best way. Because, as I said, humans make sense of the world in terms of stories. Religions teach by means of stories. Wisdom is shared through myths, tales, metaphor, fables, parables. They are not lies. They are the optimal media for communicating a particular kind of truth among human beings.

Does this have any relevance in the modern world? Yes, because human beings are still human, and we still understand our world in terms of stories. And there are complex truths best told through the medium of the fictional narrative. We use it as a kind of shorthand when we talk about reality: when someone makes reference to a “Brave New World” scenario, we know what they mean, even if we have only read about the book, not read the book itself. These fictional narratives are intensely powerful, and will continue to be, even when they leave the printed page and move to a different medium.

Should we cultivate critical thinking skills and strive to understand some kind of objective reality as best we can? Absolutely. Because that is how we are able to extract the truth from the story and the metaphor. That is how we understand what is fact and what is propaganda. But as long as we are human, we will always use stories as a part of the process of acquiring and passing on wisdom.

Normal

A prevalent characteristic can become a defining characteristic and ultimately a confining characteristic.

“My son sure is hard on clothes.”

“He’s a boy.”

“Huh? My other son isn’t hard on clothes at all.”

“Well, then, he isn’t a normal boy.”

Sigh. That word again. Normal.

It is normal for human beings to display wide variation in characteristics. It is normal for individuals of each gender to vary widely in behavior, departing from statistical averages. Both my sons are normal, thank you very much.

I wouldn’t quibble, since “normal” is actually just a way of describing a statistical average, the peak of the bell curve, if it weren’t for the pejorative connotation of “not normal.” Excellence is, by definition, abnormal. But one doesn’t hear hushed, concerned conversations about how Johnny’s consistent success at making the honor roll is not normal, the way one does that Johnny’s inability to speak at age four is not normal. Not normal implies that something is wrong.

By saying that Johnny’s complete lack of interest in trucks, guns and competitive sports is not normal, we are implying that something is wrong with Johnny.

And think of what it implies when a woman says with pride as Susie comes tottering out wrapped in pink and balanced on Mommy’s high heels, “She’s all girl!” What does that imply about the daughter of the woman next to her, who prefers books to dolls, and is upstairs playing computer games with the boys? Is she less of a girl, then? Something else? Something inferior?

We need to watch how we say things, what words we use. Because we are communicating much more than merely an observation about statistically significant characteristics. We are passing judgement. And others, children in particular, feel the message.

I’ll like yours if you’ll like mine.

In a recent Clarion Writer’s Craft blog, I talked about writer’s groups, and one of the comments brought up the issue of the “dilemma of conscience when support is defined as ‘tagging, liking, and reviewing (even if unread)’ each others’ work.” Hardly a week goes by but some writing acquaintance emails a group I belong to with an appeal to “like” her page, or to participate in a “tagging party” (“Would you help me by going to Amazon and agreeing with the tags on my book?”).

I confess I’ve done this, mostly because I felt a sense of obligation. I might someday be sending out the same appeal to try to boost the signal on something of mine. One hand washes the other, right?

But this reader’s comment gave me pause. Maybe I should be questioning whether this doesn’t just cheapen the process, increasing the noise level. Shouldn’t the “likes”, the reviews, the tags, be reserved for those who have actually read the work of the author in question and become infused with enthusiasm for it? (In which case, she would not have to urge you to support her; you’d do it spontaneously as a fan.) I wonder if this sort of thing only reduces the process to a popularity contest, where the author with the biggest friend and contact base gets the boost, regardless of the worthiness of her work.

Some authors do add the caveat, “Vote for me, if you think I deserve it,” or “If you’ve read my work and enjoyed it, please consider showing your support.” But I get the distinct impression that some of these mutual hand washing parties are all nods and winks. Of course I can choose not to participate, but what about all the rest who are gleefully trading reviews and endorsements? Is this just what one does, part of the promotional process, or should one’s conscience be pricked?

Who’s god is it anyway?

A Christian, a Buddhist and an Atheist walk into a bar.  They give their order to the bartender, who serves them and asks who’s paying.  The Buddhist shrugs apologetically and says, “I gave everything I had to a homeless man on the street I passed on my way here.”  The Christian also looks rather sheepish, confessing, “I gave everything I had to the Church orphanage fund.”  The Atheist mutters in disgust as he reaches for his wallet, “Looks like it’s me again.”

But seriously, folks, if you listen to various theists talk about God, it’s hard to believe they are talking about the same entity.  In fact, they can’t possibly.  The jealous, insecure, violent and vengeful entity who hides fossils in rocks to test his followers’ faith, who has prepared eternal torment for anybody who gets his contradictory and confusing rules wrong, and will miraculously help us to find our car keys while refusing to protect us from the rapist lurking around the corner, seems to have more in common with many people’s idea of Satan than with any kind of being worth worshiping.  On the other hand, there’s the mystical force that lies beneath the appearance of things, that created and sustains the universe, sometimes called Love and sometimes characterized as the sum of all the laws of science.  Hard to believe this entity would give a damn who you sleep with or in fact care at all about being worshiped.

What emerges from this monotheistic pantheon is the inescapable conclusion that an individual’s conception of God tells one far more about the individual than it does about God.  And some Christians have more in common with some Buddhists than they do with other Christians.

Never mind Everest

‘Tell me, why do we require a trip to Mount Everest in order to be able to perceive one moment of reality? I mean… I mean, is Mount Everest more “real” than New York? I mean, isn’t New York “real”? I mean, you see, I think if you could become fully aware of what existed in the cigar store next door to this restaurant, I think it would just blow your brains out! I mean… I mean, isn’t there just as much “reality” to be perceived in the cigar store as there is on Mount Everest?’

This quote from Wally Shawn in My Dinner With Andre pretty much sums up what happens when one starts practicing mindfulness. That’s the Buddhist discipline of being minutely aware of what’s happening around you. You begin to realize just how complex the simple act of walking is. You start to notice the richness of experience in every waking moment.

To paraphrase, if you could understand absolutely everything that is happening in the one square foot of ground just to the left of your back step, it would blow your mind.

Stop the breakneck rush trying to get somewhere and just be where you are. Focus your mind on it and try to notice absolutely everything that’s going on, inside and outside, just now.

That’s reality.

Thinking inside the box

Antique Baby Shoes, by Linda Apple

In praise of the challenge of rules

Every day she made the bed. She was happy to do that, or most anything else, for him. Crisp sheets pulled up tight, warm blankets tucked around, pillows plumped up, and the spread with its delicate pink flowers drawn up over it, every wrinkle smoothed out. Only today, she found the letter while she was making up the bed. She did not finish. There was no need.

Six sentence stories: They make for an interesting challenge. I was intrigued when I read Annette Bowman’s invitation to submit to her blog, and I came up with a couple. Here’s the link.

One hears about artistic freedom, and how one needs to be able to follow one’s impulses and explore where they lead, unrestricted by stifling rules. There’s merit to that. However, a total lack of rules is like an empty void; one’s creativity fills the space, undifferentiated, like air sucked into a vacuum. Rules provide structure, a vase for the flowers, a frame for the canvas, a shape to fill with color and texture. The classic example is the sonnet, a rigid poetic formula exploited brilliantly by writers in the past.

Another classic is Hemingway’s 6 word story: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Annette Bowman gives us the luxury of six whole sentences in which to tell a story. See what you can come up with, and share it with Annette.

Reasoning Our Way to Optimism

At the last Boskone convention, I attended a panel on a subject near and dear to me, “Optimism vs. Darkness in SF”. One of the panelists, Leonid Korogodski, opened his remarks with comments which I found both fascinating and heartening. It’s best expressed in his own words, but I’ll do my best to summarize his thesis: In an open system, where energy continuously enters, the tendency is towards ever increasing complexity. As complexity increases, the potential for negative consequences increases, but so does the potential for positive consequences and in fact, the positive edges out the negative over time.

Leo takes this observation about pure physics and generalizes it quite beautifully to more human concerns. As a society becomes more complex, the potential for catastrophe increases, but so does the potential for improvement, and the greater tendency is towards improvement. As a child grows, her ability to commit acts of evil, as well as the possibility for evil acts to be visited upon her, grows as well. But so does the possibility of goodness. And in the long run, for the majority of people, it is the good that wins.

An immediate objection to this reasoned argument might come as criticism of his extending the model from complexity vs. entropy, positive vs. negative, to good vs. evil. “Good” and “Evil” are culturally relative terms, and have no place in rational assertions. But I think an excellent argument can be made that moral values such as good and evil can be identified and quantified.

I would point to two excellent arguments for this. One can be found in work such as that of neuroscientist Sam Harris, in his book, “The Moral Landscape”,  in which he makes a very convincing case for the empirical study of what is good, that is, what is conducive to health and thriving. The other lies in the basic tenets of Buddhism, that compassion and loving-kindness comprise what is good, based not on religious philosophy but on simple, testable, observable experimentation of what works, what actually brings the most happiness to the greatest number of people.  [Ethics for a New Millennium PDF]

Whole symposia could be organized around these ideas; I cannot hope to adequately represent and defend them here. But I see this as an exciting, vital and rich source of inspiration for discussion and debate, and an important antidote to depression and despair, which are epidemic in our darkness-obsessed culture.

Optimism triumphs over darkness; good over evil. (I am tempted to add, matter over antimatter, and thus the reason for Something and not Nothing, but that’s a digression for another time).