I have no idea why this 'not happening' happens all the time. Maybe it's the excitement of running, those endorphins kicking in to give me a dose of that fabled "runner's high" and causing its lesser-known side effect of terrible ideas. Maybe I'm simply oxygen-deprived and can't assess my own thinking. In any event, I thought it would be helpful to go back and try to understand what happened on that night. How could an idea that was so exciting it literally made me run faster end up discarded just hours later? This week, I finally rolled up my sleeves, fished out that outline from a few weeks ago, and tried to make sense of this recurring yet always perplexing chain of events.
There were a few things about my list that jumped out at me. First was the issue of the structure. The 'composite run' concept is always difficult because it imposes an equality across ideas so long as they fit under one broad label - I thought of this while running! The problem is, not all ideas are created equal, so I needed to trim my list down before I could start working. A great rule of thumb for composite concepts is to ask - can this idea exist as its own post? This deals with the problem of weak ideas borrowing from stronger ideas - when this happens, the strong idea often loses its own identity in the process of propping up its weaker counterparts. Once I started removing the best ideas from my outline, I found that my initially compelling concept was left with very little substance for the post, and there was little possibility that I could make the sorry leftovers exceed the sum of their parts.
This brings me to a second point, which is that the constraints of my structure would force me to write fiction, much in the spirit of those who despite the best intentions suggested by their 'based on actual events' labels almost always admit that a list of truths does not make for nonfiction. Yes reader, no true thing is ever true on average (!). This was kind of a strange realization because one thing I've thought about while running is how writers decide whether to write fiction or nonfiction. What is the thought process that results in those extraordinary efforts, just to invent a world where you can express something that could simply be stated in a nonfiction piece? In any event, it struck me as a little too meta to create a fictional setting just to explore the idea of creating a fictional setting, so I opted out.
It leaves me here, sitting in the scattered debris and rubbish of my own rough drafts, and still wondering why a writer chooses fiction as the best way to deliver a message. Why not just tell it like it is? It would surely save some time, and might even be more effective. I think there are some obvious issues like personal safety that are relevant concerns, and I've written about these situations when I've reviewed books like The Accusation, a collection of short stories smuggled out of North Korea. Bandi knew why handing out copies of 'On Stage' in downtown Pyongyang wasn't a great idea; I wonder if Galileo ever considered expressing his views in the form of a novel or a play, perhaps centering the plot around star-crossed lovers.
But I think there is a strong case to make for fiction whenever the writer cannot bear the risk, or is simply unwilling to take the chance. The only consistent context I can think of for this reluctance is when the writing is about another person. The best fiction writing always seems to be about someone, but in the writing it's never clear if it's about anyone; what's abundantly clear to me is that there's not much benefit in making this explicit. In the context of both an election year and these past few weeks of nationwide protests, I think I have some guesses about why Robert McLiam Wilson wrote Eureka Street instead of unflinchingly describing the people in his life. It's easy enough to understand why - most people only get to know a handful of people well enough to write about them in such depth, so to describe them so baldly in nonfiction seems to me like it would risk valued relationships.
It's hard to write about other people, but more importantly it's dangerous. As far as I recall, I've never done it on TOA. When I look over my discarded outline for this 'composite run', it's jarring to see the references to so many specific people - a former colleague I ran into, another I ran past, and endless thoughts about people I haven't seen in weeks, months, and years. And within the composite frame, these references would have to be told truthfully, honestly, in a way that would turn others into content. Not here, or maybe I should say not yet, because although I'm perfectly willing to cross this line someday, I'd prefer to have a larger platform, one that constantly reminds me of the consequences in the event I mishandled such a major responsibility.
I guess in my usual meandering and methodical manner, we've reached a TOA staple - the eye-rolling moment where I have some Big Idea no one asked for and which has no functional value. Today, I propose a redefinition of fiction, or perhaps just a testable hypothesis. Here goes - if a writer must describe a specific person, and especially a close, living personal contact, it will probably have to be fiction. The risk is just too much, even if the portrait will reveal some eternal truth about the human condition, because if we've learned anything in lockdown its that our close relationships are precious, and not worth trading for content. It's odd that this is all I accomplished, a wandering loop that simply restates my original position - I've made up something based on real events. I guess I'm used to circling back to the start, what with all my running. But the line between fiction and nonfiction is important enough for this distinction, one that transcends the difference between fact and fake, or real and invention. It's not what the line is or where it is exactly, but why we need a line, one that we refuse to cross. Fiction must be about people, an account of a lived life, and an invention of what cannot be made up. The rest we can call nonfiction, a confirmation of what happened, and a refutation of all that is invented.
This leaves me with the last big question, something I appropriately added at the very end of my outline before I chucked it out - what is the point of this? The world hardly needs another personal essay doomed to irrelevance in the endless depths of the deep, dark web, but I think we keep churning out reflections just to prove to ourselves that our lives are happening. The mirror shows us what we know is there, but we have to hold up our end, and have a look every day. On some of these lockdown days, I will go an entire day without speaking, and I've learned that despite the running and the thinking my life is in some ways not happening unless I write and write until I see my own reflection.
Early in lockdown I heard many hopeful predictions about a 'creative renaissance' - I disagreed then, and I have no evidence today to refute my guess. But I bet something has happened, I bet a lot of people have picked up a pen or turned on their computers just to do this, answering the question what is the point of this, stubbornly toeing the line between fact and fiction until the newest reflection emerges, confirming again that during these weeks when nothing happened yesterday and nothing will happen tomorrow, something still happened today.
