Why fiction writers tell lies
While standing in the park, I understand the impetus for writing fiction. The fountain splashes into the unseen pond over the hill, the September cicadas sing in the trees, the soccer coach shouts at the young players. I watch and listen and wait, but each of the plotlines remains flat.
Maybe one of the walkers will let their dog off its leash. The dog will trot over to the pond and dip its snout in the water to drink. Then an alligator will burst through the surface and, with one snap of its giant jaw, eat the dog whole ... but we don’t have any alligators in Kansas.
Or, maybe the soccer coach will say something cruel to one of the kids. Then the kid’s dad will jump out of his lawn chair, run over, and punch the coach in the face. A brawl will ensue and the other parents will join in and even the kids will fight ... but they all seem like nice people.
I know there is a conflict here somewhere, a climax even, as the sun sets over the roofs of the neighborhood beyond the trees. But the full story is hidden from me tonight, like a colored bead buried in a white sand beach. And so, with my hands in my pockets, kicking at the dirt, I return to the original question: how long should I wait for reality to be interesting before I start making it all up on my own?
“If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet