We all have different versions of the same events. So is
truth a subjective concept? And how does truth apply to fiction, which is,
essentially, make-believe?
In the essay called The
Story of my Life in 3500 Words or Less* (by journalist and screenwriter Nora
Ephron, who sadly passed away last year) the writer observed, “I can’t understand
why anyone would write fiction when what actually happens is so amazing.”
Authors are frequently advised to write about what they know
or from personal experiences. When I was
younger I used to think that the more real and true an incident or storyline, the
more authentic and believable it would be to the reader. It is only in recent years that I can see
this was a fallacy. Self-delusion. The fact that something actually happens doesn’t
make for a better, or for that matter, worse story. What happened is almost irrelevant, compared
to how the writer relates this to the reader.
The most outrageous propositions can be made plausible with a skilful
writer.
In the 1970s, when I was a teenager, I got locked in the toilets
at the local cinema with a group of my friends after the film had finished, as
a result of staff negligence. It was
scary (all the lights went out, so we were in total darkness), spooky, and
completely bizarre. We managed to make
our way to the main entrance, eventually, which looked out onto the street and
we banged on the glass doors and shouted “Help” repeatedly before anyone would
stop and listen. The few passers-by
ignored us, or hurried by. When, eventually,
the police arrived, they assumed we had deliberately got ourselves locked in to
vandalise the place. The Cinema Manager had
to be called to unlock the doors, and he
drove back in a foul mood (he had been drinking and reeked of alcohol). I pointed this out to the policemen, who
appeared to have no interest in this fact, and our names and addresses were
demanded. We were terrified of what our parents
would say if we were arrested, (and may have given false names) but we were finally
left to walk home alone (having missed the last bus and not enough money for a
taxi). Four teenage girls. Nearly midnight. I was livid at the way we had been treated. Our parents didn’t believe us, so I contacted
the local press (I was a feisty little so and so!), who showed initial interest
in the story and then backed down after speaking to the police. That was the end of it.
Years later, I included the incident in the first draft of one of my teen novels, but was advised by my agent and publisher that this all seemed
rather far-fetched, unrealistic and would I please omit it from the story. Initially I was frustrated, pleading my
case. But I changed it. Many years
later, I realised that they were right.
Including every detail of what happened didn’t add to the story. It wasn’t needed.
The book was Matty and the Moonlight Horse. And the idea
for the book came from that late night walk home after getting locked in the
cinema and taking a short cut through the graveyard. With me thinking, in the way that my pony-mad
teenage brain operated, “What if we encountered a runaway horse by the
tombstones?”
Anyway, you will find in Matty and the Moonlight Horse that I modified real events so that Matty and her
friends leave the cinema late because one of them insists on queuing for pizza,
so they miss the last bus home, take a shortcut through the graveyard, and as
the church bell strikes midnight……well, you’ll have to read the book to find
out what happens next.
*in the collection I
Feel Bad About My Neck and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman
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