The Magic of Fiction

As a child, when the world became too fraught with the typical trials of childhood along with atypical family upheavels,  I'd often head for the back yard and the swing or hammock or run upstairs to my room and  open up a book, escaping  into the world of fiction:  another family, another land, another life. 

It still works today.

Today, with all the tragedy and unrest in the world, the Japanese earthquake and subsequent tsunami, the  Egyptian and Tunisian revolutions, the current fighting in Libya, the constant political excoriation of our president, first because he didn't commit our forces to the fray, then because he waited too long and now because he didn't officially declare war and get approval from the Congress, there simply becomes too much negativity.  So what do I do? Of course,  I head for my room and begin to read, usually something I've read before, anything that will take me away to another world, different characters who live fascinating lives in exotic lands.


Is this a  childish reflex?  Maybe.  But I couldn't continue living my life with any semblance of sanity without it.   It is my protection  against all the
embroilments of the modern political world and prickly family involvements. I recommend it to others.  It's better than TV, a movie or both.  Fiction becomes a part of you -- it can wrap you up in a  rich labyrinthe of words and carry you off into a world of fantasy. 

I love my life, but my life becomes enriched when I can get my hands on a good piece of fiction. 

I realized today, that the reason I want to get back to my own novel and read it again and again are the characters.  I spent so many years with these people, they are like another family, friends that are cut from fabric that I selected and shaped by my own will and preference. Now that the book is finished, they are no longer daily companions and I miss them.

Sounds crazy, doesn't it?

And what's the solution for someone like me?  Continue to read, of course. Or -- you've got it! Write another book.

Why We Write

More often than not, we write in order to clarify our own beliefs rather than to impose them on others.

Just as in teaching, we often must activate long dormant information when the need arises to convey that knowledge to someone else. That original information which brought us to our current state of knowledge is unpacked, dusted off and viewed in a new light, sometimes surprisingly admirable and worthy of a new look and a new devotion.

We write from our own experiences certainly-- not necessarily autobiographically, but from our response to the rest of the world. Whether it is a physical memory, an intellectual appreciation of someone else's thoughts, or a spiritual revelation, it has been filtered through our vision of the world and therefore it becomes uniquely ours.

My new novel is my story, even though it is entirely fiction, as it expresses many of my own beliefs and desires that become part of the journey of my characters. Even characters with whom I have little in common reflect my beliefs in one way or another because they are my creation and whether admirable or abominable, positive or negative, they are inevitably mine or else how could I write about them.

Consequently, the story or stories we write are revelations even to ourselves. And sometimes it's difficult to recognize all those ideas as they flow from our minds, even though they partly represent who we are, recently re-examined, re-lived, re-acknowledged. They are not the artificial replications of an idea or a belief, but uniquely us in modified personna.

I always wondered what people meant when they said "write from the heart," or "be honest in your writing;" or, "don't fake it." When one is writing fiction at an early age, that can be difficult to understand. After all, fiction is fiction, right? It's stuff we make up. But it isn't. The idea, of course, is not to bring to the page a rendition of your idea without believing in it --even when it is supposed to be "make believe."

Why is journal writing so effective in clearing the mind? Because in journal writing, we allow the words to flow from the pen without criticism, or self imposed censorship. They pour directly from our sub conscious belief system without that internal editor standing over our shoulder admonishing and censoring. We allow the absolute truth to flow from our minds and when we re-read those words, we gradually come to understand ourselves. It's a great way to get acquainted.