On my own voice


A dear friend of mine is a sociologist who loves literature. One of her theories is that there is no such thing as fiction. She maintains that all work is somewhat true, somewhat autobiographical. 

Another Oscar Wilde quote:

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.

How many masks do we  put on as fiction writers? My husband on the other hand finds this line of thinking absurd. He holds that there is definitely fiction cut and dry. 

In my WIP I tell the truth about some hard moments in my life.  I hope that it rings true and makes people feel.  In doing so I aim to write about what I know in a highly fictionalized way that I hope will make people think. 

Is there such a thing as fiction? I think so, but I must admit that I have attempted to pour out part of myself into this book.  

The book I’m reading now (Silent Hall) has been described as perfect and incomparable on the back cover. I’m enjoying it, but I wonder how much of it the author has poured himself into.  I wonder what kind of life he’s had and what he’s wanting the reader to think and feel. 

It’s also intimidating to see a book described as perfect when I know how replete with errors mine is. 

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