Essence

It is getting late but I wanted to jot some things down before turning out the light. I've been thinking about truth and magic in story. I was talking with my brother and made a few discoveries that I can't wait to explore more when I have more time. See, that story I sketched out the other day about Hawaii and the color of my face, I've learned something important about it. My first reaction to the woman's question about the redness of my skin was defensive: she was pointing out an imperfection. But that's just silly. Here is what I think was really going on, the old woman at that breakfast cafe with her over ripe husband and ancient mother, sat in a heavy silence on a bright Sunday morning. Perhaps she sat there and watched me, a young man, talking passionately with my brother, slurping cup after cup of coffee--maybe she saw youth or charisma. Maybe it brought back memories, fantasies. Maybe she saw my red face and smile and thought of somewhere tropical where the sun always shines. And so when she asked me, where I'd been to get such a tan, maybe she wanted a story of adventures at the equator--snorkeling, pirates, coconut bombs, grass skirts. Maybe my answer, though a lie, was exactly what she needed. I'd like to think that I gave her a dream of sand and sun and she went home to cook a spicy dish for her aged husband.

And that is what writing is about. Gifts of visions--this is the essence of fiction. I'm more of a liar than a writer but it is awesome when truth presents itself so clearly.