What is fiction?

The question that is serving as a title for this post is pretty straightforward: what is fiction?

The answers to it can vary from a statement as simple as "It's the opposite of non-fiction," to as abstract as "It's the essence of life." However you identify fiction, one thing is for certain: it is a lie that's constructed in order to reveal a great truth.

Cervantes's Don Quixote, Hardy's Jude the Obscure, or even Meyer's Twilight saga...they are all made-up stories that entertain while they make a point about human behavior in the face of crisis.

I got to thinking about what fiction is after I had a conversation with my sister about an Arabic TV show. The hero of this TV show is hardly a hero. For one thing the show opens with him getting the cold treatment from his wife for an offense we're not privy to in detail right away, making us sympathize with him for having to put up with such abuse.

Our hero, being warm with his cold wife.

Yet as the show progresses, we realize that he is a repeat-offending cheater, and we know this because he begins to have an affair with one of his employees at his law firm and does it expertly, continuing to plead with his wife to warm up to him, all while getting warmth from someone else.

Our hero with his mistress, during after-hours.

The discussion got interesting, mainly because although this protagonist hardly ever does the right thing in any facet of his life, he does possess a certain charisma, and I would venture to say a romantic vulnerability that makes viewers sympathize with him, even though he doesn't deserve to be sympathized with. Aside from being a cheater, he also obstructs justice in order to win his cases defending far-from-innocent clients.

Our hero at work.

As someone who knows a little bit about the craft of storytelling, I knew that the ending would not be good for this character, that his wife would never warm up to him again, and that the woman he is having an affair with throughout the show is not going to stand for his dishonesty at work, or in the bedroom.

But the guy is just too freakin' likable, my sister and I agreed. And herein lies the greatness of fiction.

Although we wanted his wife to warm up to him, and we wanted him to get what he wants, knowing fully well that he doesn't deserve it, justice had to be served in the end. He had to lose the big case and lose the people he lied to and used.

I had an easier time with the outcome than my sister did, which I'm glad to report was one where justice was served and our hero was dealt the blows he needed to finally understand the repercussions of his actions.

Our charismatic hero, all alone.

My sister felt bad for him though and said that the show had ended in a very depressing way; she wished that he hadn't lost everything the way he did. I knew she was only saying this because the hero was likable, like I mentioned before, so I had to put things into perspective for her to accept that this sad ending was the only possible ending in what is ultimately what every piece of fiction and drama is: a made-up story about real life.

"If you heard about someone like him in real life, and didn't know what was going on in his mind," I began, "you just knew that he lied, cheated and schemed to get what he wants without any regard for anyone else's feelings along the way, wouldn't you want him to have an end like this one?"

"Yes," she said, "but still, he's so likable, I wanted him to have a better end than this."

"Well," I said, "that's the beauty of fiction and drama. It shows you the psychology of why someone does what they do, and makes you sympathize with the human condition, no matter how evil or horrible it is. It teaches you that not every evil act stems from the same place."

And with that, I suppose I added a new definition to fiction. Fiction is the dissection of human actions to help us understand, and, perhaps, treat each other with more compassion. Fiction teaches us to simply accept each other, for it proves we are all human, fighting the same fight. In the end, fiction is humanity.

Romancing the Stone with a Colombian in the room

I haven't written about Thanksgiving week yet, and now it seems so passe that I don't want to just write about how Thanksgiving week went, albeit it was anything but uneventful.

Plenty of things happened over Thanksgiving this year and they were all good things. For instance, my brother and his wife came out to Denver for a visit over the holiday and stayed Wednesday night through Tuesday morning... that's six days. What's so special about that? Well, for one thing this is the first time, in a very very long time that my brother has been able to come out for a period longer than three or four days. That is, of course, if you count the day when he actually has to board a plane and go back to whence he came from, ridiculously early in the morning. OK, so that's not so exciting now that I'm writing about it. I mean, if you really think about it it's not even two full days extra from the usual. But you know, it's like money-- if it's anywhere over $50, it sounds like a lot of money for you to do plenty of things with, but when you go out there and try to put that money to work it suddenly and very quickly dwindles down to mere peanuts before you even get a chance to spend it. It's psychological, obviously.

Another thing that made this Thanksgiving super special was the fact that it was my sister-in-law's first visit to Denver and stay at our humble abode. Still not very exciting to anyone but us... *damn*. BUT if you recall what I wrote at the beginning of this post, my intent isn't to write about Thanksgiving, but rather something that took place during the Thanksgiving holiday. Something that I've been mulling over in my head for a few days and now feel ready to write about.

One evening during my brother's stay we decided to watch a family favorite-- Romancing the Stone. If you're not familiar with this flick, it is total escapism and adventure that takes you from a romance novelist's apartment in New York City, to a treasure hunt in Colombia. Now, the significance of my brother and his wife's visit is the fact that my sister-in-law happens to be Colombian. Adding another first to her list, she viewed this piece of pure 80s entertainment.

I found out a long time ago that though this movie is set in Colombia, it was not shot there due to an influx of kidnappings right around the time the crew was supposed to go down there. Instead, they shot it in Mexico. OK, I thought. It may not be authentic Colombia, but it should be generally close. I have no idea what I mean by generally close, but I expected something to be accurate even though this is hardly a movie that required more than someone's fun imagination and creativity to produce.

Putting aside Michael Douglas's inability to pronounce Cartagena correctly throughout the movie by adding one of those squiggly Spanish accents to the "n", so that Cartagena (it's spelled just like it sounds, only the "g" is an "h") is Cartagenia. Or more precisely, Cartahaynia, pronounced with a deliberate twang. That's annoying and completely incompetent on the director's part, but I digress. No, I'm talking about the complete disregard for the distinct differences between Latin America and Central America... folks, they're totally different. They are two different continents with different landscapes, cultures, climates and Spanish dialects.

What bothered me the most after watching Romancing the Stone with a Colombian in the room was how much was ridiculously made up. The first thing that made my brother and his wife chuckle was a close up shot of a supposed Colombian license plate. I can't imagine replicating a country's license plate would be that difficult, even if there was no internet to make such information easily accesible. The second thing that made them burst into laughs were the gators just roaming about on pavement. The dialect spoken was Mexican and the people were Mexican. Not even the native dress of peasants or the police/military were accurate, according to my sister-in-law. "Not even close," she said. My favorite was the llama... there aren't any in Colombia, or Mexico for that matter. They really went out of their way to be wrong, I guess.

After saying all that, you're probably wondering why I'm making such a big deal about an 80s movie with a romance novelist as its main character. Well, it's mostly because I am doing research for a historical fiction story I hope to turn into a book one of these days. Fiction has always scared me more than non-fiction, because fiction is, well, fiction. You, the writer, make it up and it's all you. If you make a mistake, you really look stupid and people will roll their eyes. I know, because I roll my eyes all the time at fiction that pretends to know what my people-- Arabs and/or Muslims-- are like. I've also read and seen fiction that makes Denver look like this snow-covered place where people wear their coats all winter long over their Denver Broncos gear and go on about how cold it is with a cowboy's twangy accent. I grew up and have lived in Denver for 20 years, and I can tell you that that painting of Denver is pretty much bologne.

Finally, I am of the total belief that if you're going to go out on a limb and do something, you should do it right or don't do it at all, otherwise the Colombian in the room will laugh at you.

Fictionally moving forward

Late last night I checked my e-mail. After I deleted a bunch of junk, my eyes got completely fixed on one e-mail. The word "Editor" in the address it came from was an indicator that this wasn't junk, even though AOL flagged it as questionable. My eyes then moved to the subject, and I got further assurance that this wasn't some trick by spammers who happened to figure out what makes me tick-- it was the title of a short story I had sent out a number of days ago.

Opening the e-mail, I expected either a rejection, or a big fat "YES, WE'LL PUBLISH YOUR STORY!" So, I opened the e-mail and found that it was neither. What I found was a request to send the manuscript for a short story I had apparently just queried this online publication about.

For those who don't know, queries are usually sent in without a manuscript attached. Instead, they are just a "I have this idea/manuscript I think you might like. Just say the word, and I'll send it to you," kind of thing.

Some publications go to great lengths to make sure they are not swamped with unwanted manuscripts, and ask for query letters.

As in the case of this online publication that wanted me to send my manuscript in, they ask that you download and fill out a "Query Form," which asks for a basic synopsis of your work. I find that it makes things easier, really. That way, you don't have to agonize over writing a query letter, and know exactly what they want you to tell them. I like that.

So, the e-mail I received had very detailed instructions about format, font size, font type and where my name, address and other information should go on the manuscript. I followed the instructions, got my manuscript ready to go, and within seconds, had sent it in.

Now I must wait and see if what I promised in the query form has been delivered in the eyes of this particular editor. *SIGH*

Having said all that, I truly am excited. I just wish that I had gotten the answer, instead of just an OK to send my work in. Wait wait wait. It's all a writer can do once the writing process (which entails more than just writing) is done.

In the meantime, I'm moving forward. I've been mulling over an idea for a story the last few weeks, and I feel ready to start writing it. It should be easy to find a publication where this particular story I've got in mind will fit, because though it is fiction, it is inspired by actual, very bizarre events. It is nothing that happened to me, but I'm so intrigued, my imagination has created vivid images I can draw a good, solid story from.

The idea of writing about this thing is recent, but I have been intrigued by it for months. It was last year, I believe, that this thing intrigued me and now I'm putting it to good use by writing what I hope will be an interesting story.

Fiction is hard when you're an Assistant Editor

My third week of school has come and gone, and I hate to say it, but I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. I'm scoffing at myself for being such a weenie when on paper I'm just taking one class and have just a 4-hour obligation as Assistant Editor, but these things take a lot more time than that.

Firstly, my class is one that works in mysterious ways. I say I have homework, but it's not really homework, it's just writing. I have to do a lot of writing in order for this class to work the way it ought, and that part is as it always is-- difficult. I have some things I can send out, but I wanna send out my best, and right now I don't feel I have that yet.

I have one story I feels is ready, and it got a good response when I posted it up on a forum, but there were some glitches with it that got a mix of responses. No one denied it was good, but I can't decide if what I made my characters do really is hard to believe like some readers said it was, or if the readers who raised concerns are just forgetting that little thing called "suspension of reality".

Being that my story is not science fiction, or fantasy, I suppose some readers take it as just plain fiction based on what might happen in real life. And this is what gets me . . . I, for the longest time was absolutely terrified of writing fiction, because of this exact thing-- writing something unbelievable.

I've voiced this concern to several people in the past. They all waved the hand without the drink in it dismissively, telling me that that's the beauty of fiction; that you can do anything with it.

After giving it a lot of thought, I began to write fiction. I liked it. I felt so free, and I want nothing more than to continue with it. What I found after a few stories, however, is that fiction is very tricky. Now, I've read all kinds of it that rang true to the essence of life (which is what fiction is) but not necessarily true to what might really happen.

My story is a crime thriller on the surface, but if you just lift that layer a teeny tad bit, it's a little deeper than that. It deals with a woman who is very naive. So naive that she has gotten herself into a pickle she thinks she can get out of just by saying she wants out, but ends up having that idea blown out of her head-- literally.

Sounds gory, but it's not.

It's a dialogue-driven story of said woman, and this stranger she meets in the subway.

Some people liked it . . .

"Having lived in New York and been a frequent subway traveler, my observations on this would be ... it isn't odd for him to light her cigarette ... (especially in NY smile) for all kinds of reasons. But I really like her! she is a naive, but yet hip to a few things."

While others, er, not so much . . .

"While I love the ending, I guess I struggle to believe that someone who is frustrated with all the people following her, is going to walk through an alley with a complete stranger (might be my midwest thinking as opposed to a place like New York)".

I have a feeling that the person who struggled to believe that a naive-- naive being a keyword-- woman would be wooed by a handsome gentleman in a tailored suit right after breaking up with what sounds like a thug through her dialogue is missing the point of my story. Again, there is a handsome stranger in a tailored suit, behaving like a gentleman toward a woman who demonstrates a certain quality of, shall we say, evident bad judgement, happens to have just broken up with her thuggish boyfriend on a cell phone . . . in a subway. Had I described a scruffy-looking guy in torn clothes and a full-grown beard approaching this woman, it would be a different issue.

But I've watched people interact with each other in all kinds of settings. Complete strangers talk to each other, and I hear them give each other too much information all the time. All these people are well-dressed and look like soccer moms, and corporate CEO's, but who knows what lurks beneath? It's just how some people are-- they're naive and will talk to anyone who doesn't look like a scruffy weirdo. New York City, Denver, Omaha . . . people are people everywhere you go, and there're always going to be those who are naive, and those who are evil to take advantage of that naivete.

Think about it-- if there weren't such people in this world, we wouldn't have so many disappearances and murders on the news. Moreover, the evening news is proof that such things as women trusting complete handsome strangers can and DO happen.

In the end, I don't wanna be too stubborn and shoot myself in the foot by ignoring people's feedback, but I also don't know these critiquers well enough to know whether they're qualified or not. Ted's review page isn't the same as The New York Times review page, and that's where things become a little fuzzy and difficult to figure out in this situation. I must give this much thought and act soon so I can get moving on submissions, though. I just wish it wasn't so difficult.

The newspaper is also a lot of hard work. I spend a lot of time sending out emails, and reading emails I receive from multiple people. Story ideas, tracking, updating, and keeping everyone in the loop is a lot of work. UH-LOT. And it's my job. On top of all that, I have to write two opinion columns by next Thursday, which is all fine and dandy, but I also have to write for my class, remember? AAAAAAA! It's insanity in my brain right now, but it's all good.

Despite everything I love keeping this busy. It's when I get the most things done, and have the most energy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna fall over from exhaustion.