by Lisa Sledge
Fiction is beautiful.
When something difficult comes my way I become a mess. I fall apart. I cry and yell and make all sorts of terrible mistakes. Grace under fire is a foreign concept for me.
In fiction we put our characters in a situation, watch them flail around for a while, and then let them work their way out. They make it to the point in which it ends. For better or worse, there is a conclusion.
A resolution. A sigh.
It’s easy to forget, stuck in the middle of our own problems, that nothing is forever. Fiction reminds us of the bigger picture. And it gives us heroes. My favorites are the ones who make an even worse mess of life than I do.
Because if they can find a way out of the troubles of their story, their moment, I begin to believe there’s a way out of mine.
Most fiction is not actually fiction at all. In fact, sometimes I think it is more honest than nonfiction. Ever read a politician’s autobiography?
Whatever we write, lets weave truth into our stories. Lets fill the world with hope.
Hope is real.
And so is fiction.