One of this century’s masters of literature, Barbara Kingsolver, (The Poisonwood Bible, Harper-Collins, 1998) has this to say about the art of fiction: “The writing of fiction is a dance between truth and invention.”
There are those purists in the literary industry who insist on fact above all — who will brook no deviation from absolute accuracy in all description.
They will go to great lengths to ensure that every detail is verifiable. As readers, they will call out an author on the most marginal error. As writers, they may be prone to bombard the reader with well-documented descriptions of this or that, sometimes to the detriment of their tale.
And there are others, as we well know, who blithely throw the truth out the window, determined never to let the facts get in the way of a good story. These authors can make for a fun read, but will sometimes burden a reader’s patience with their complete disregard for credibility.
There are arguments to be made on both sides of the dance floor, but, as with most things, the real artistry of fiction can be found somewhere in the middle, dipping and weaving to the music of the imagination, cleaving to the truth, but not rigidly. Holding it like a lover, one who must be allowed the occasional leaway so as not to feel smothered.
The truth will dance willingly with us, if we writers are prepared to court it. But it is not an easy sweetheart — there is effort involved in all worthy research.
In the on-going creative dance of truth and invention, the imagination should at all times lead, but it should not be forced to dance alone.
Follow
