Is Fiction the Lies of Truth? Do We Hide Our Own Lives Within the Words?

As my latest novel, I WILL TELL THE NIGHT, moves closer to its release date, I can’t help but think about the way fiction is often an alternate version of reality. The manipulative way we mingle truths in with the creative lies is almost vulgar. Those who know the writer can pick out little bits here and there that seem to be almost autobiographical. It’s the same with every novel ever written.

As I work my way through my final pass, I’m seeing similarities between story and my lived life. Let me make this perfectly clear from the onset, though…this upcoming novel has almost nothing to do with my own life. It is totally a work of fiction. Any similarities is coincidental, blah, blah, blah!

But the fine hairs… let’s just say there are hidden truths in all fiction.

The horse pictured above sat on a shelf in my grandmother’s house back in Nelson, Miramichi, New Brunswick. That happens to be the geographical setting of most of my novel I WILL TELL THE NIGHT. It’s the story of a gay man who was born and raised in that small town in the East Coast of Canada. A man who fled to the big city of Toronto, Ontario, when his homosexuality was not accepted. It’s a family saga about dysfunction and redemption.

The horse above makes an appearance in this fictional story. See, it just seeped in. I had nothing to do with it. I was happily writing along and suddenly this horse appeared in the story. The horse is real, but it’s also fictional. This is exactly what I’m talking about. We bleed little pieces of reality into our fiction without actually realize we’re doing it.

The story has nothing to do with my own life. But I did steal tidbits and peppered them through the story. I used some of my own experiences, geographical familiarities, etc. Hell, I even used the bric-à-brac and tchotchkes from my own life. These are the details that make the lies of fiction more believable, aren’t they.

I’ve had more than one person tell me they were nervous about reading this one. I guess the plot line invites the possibility of autobiographical fiction. But it’s not! This novel is all lies…all make belief…all fiction. If you spot similarities, I guess it just means I did my job properly. I strive more than ever to make this novel ‘believable’. But it’s not a story about me…in any way.

On the Miramichi, August, 2024. Michael and I took grandboy Edward down for the Labour Day Weekend.

Although I spent most of my childhood summers in the Miramichi, visiting my granparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, I am not FROM there. I never in a million years would have made an escape from the shores of the Miramichi the way my main character did in the novel. If anything, I would have ran toward the place. It’s still one of my favourite places in the world.

I have always wanted to write a novel set in New Brunswick. ALWAYS! This one came about in 2016 after a series of events transpired. In April of that year, my mother passed away. My parents were living back in the Miramichi at the time of her passing. My brother and I made a last minute trip to get there prior to my mother’s passing. We made it. We said our goodbyes.

Then, fast-forward three months to July and it was time, once again, for the Muskoka Novel Marathon. With our experiences fresh in my mind, a story came to me. Who knew the heartrending experience of driving a thousand miles to see our dying mother one last time would remain fresh in my mind and beg to be used in a fictional setting?

A panel of judges chose the novel to win the 2016 BEST ADULT NOVEL AWARD at the Muskoka Novel Marathon.

There is a gossamer resemblance to our journey East and the journey taken in the novel, but all similarities fall apart after that. I know this may come across as ‘thou doth protest too much’, but the truth is the entire story is FICTION. This is what authors do. They take a square and mold it into a circle. The square is still there…but you just can’t see it. We twist and pull at our own life experiences, mold things into a story, and then we pull out all the identifying details. What’s left is pure fiction. If you write close enough to the bone, though, that fiction is also reality. We create something new.

I have said enough. I now feel like I’m attempting to convince a horse of his essential cow-ness. If you know me, and you read this story…you may think, “hmmm???” But you won’t find me in it’s pages. None of it is true.