What is Fiction?

Every month more than a million people ask the internet, "What is fiction?"  Really. 

As a retired journalist and the author of (so far) 19 novels, this is a question that stumps me.  I mean, fiction is something made up from the imagination, right?  It's not necessarily something written down, either; some of the best fiction I know about was the whoppers my brother-in-law told his wife.  Here's a classic:

Tim (not his real name) liked to tipple on payday, which made him late for dinner.  Once, confronted with his irate Missus, he exploded, "Didn't you hear?  Christ, woman!  A plane just crashed right downtown!  Traffic's a mess!  People are dying!"  All was forgiven, until Missus turned on the evening news. 

A definition of fiction depends on who asks.  There's the "...literature comprised of imaginative narration" from the dictionary, but then one, meaning me, balks at the use of the word "literature."  Too limiting; literature implies quality, and obviously applies to only one in several thousand novels that see print.

There's Skeat's Etymological Dictionary, which I kind of like: "From the Latin...a feigning." 
Also, there's my strict father's assertion: "A lie," but he was a conservative Christian minister.  Then there's a publisher's list of designations: fiction, non-fiction, essay or poetry. 

Novelists rely on experience to cook up a story, and on people they have known to create a character.  In my current thriller, My More Than Sister, the murder victim is recognizably based on a nice woman I once knew.  I wouldn't want her to read the book; in there, she's a foul-mouthed raunch.  Every other feature about the character is taken from life.  So I ask you, is the murder victim, the character in my book, fictional?  I mean, in the act of writing the very first page I knew who she was; choosing this real woman was inevitable. 

In another book, Deed of Trust, the bad guy is found and apprehended by my mother, cackling with glee as she often did in real life.  She’s wearing heels and a cocktail dress and flirting with the heroine’s boyfriend.  When I read it to mom, she cackled.  But she didn’t recognize herself until I told her.

We novelists are adjured to write what we know, right?  And real life is dull, dull, dull, equally right?  So our task is to make "what we know" interesting.  Lie a lot.  I think that's right. 

Here are Chapters Ten and Eleven of Dead on Dutcher's Mountain.  Our Heroine has just identified the decomposing body of her sister-in-law. 

***
Ten
Voerst took over Hillary’s care; she stumbled away from the corpse, coughing, and was suddenly against the breadth of his chest.
“Radio for this lady’s brother,” he told McCoy.  “I’ll take her down the easier way.”  He guided her as the dusk thickened, murmuring warnings at indistinct rocks and roots.  She heeded him like an obedient child and leaned into his circling arm with gratitude.  Eventually her spasms died.  Eventually, too, she knew she would stop her silent weeping.  They approached Voerst’s home; Lout, the dog, raised his massive head beside the Accordo.
“From here we can easily reach your cabin unobserved,” he said.  “With her father called to the site, you want your niece.  You must tell her yourself, and avoid maudlin sympathy.  I’ll bring her.”
“Thank you.  That’s thoughtful.”
“It’s nothing.” 
She clung to his warmth.  “I’m only shocked, you know.  Gail and I weren’t close.  I accepted her death long ago.”
“Nevertheless.”
He installed her in the cabin and lit the heaters in both rooms.  He brought her water to drink from the bathroom, and she drank.  Her face was wet, so he washed it.  He reached to check her pulse.  She caught his warm hand.  “I’m fine.”
“You are controlled.”
“It’s enough, Karl.  Please; I want Karen.”
She watched him cross the compound from beside a small, misting window.  Her head pounded.  Everything made her feel cold, but her cheek and shoulders retained his body heat.  She had no thoughts. 
He reappeared with Karen and was carrying a tray.  The tilt of the girl’s head declared she was asking questions.  Hillary opened the door as they climbed to the porch.
“Hi, Aunt Hillary.  Have you met my friend Mr. Voerst?”
“Yes, darling.  Come and sit down.”  Hillary couldn’t help herself; she gave the girl an unnecessary hug and took her onto her lap.  Karl installed himself and the tray on the bed.  “Mr. Voerst is being very helpful,” Hillary said.
Karen squirmed around to face her aunt, quick to sense her distress.  “It something wrong?”
Hillary straightened the girl’s collar.  There was a pause; it became pregnant.  Voerst watched.  “Not really anything new, dear.  We’ve  learned why your mother disappeared.”
Karen blurted, “She died, didn’t she?” and began to cry.
“Yes.”
After all it was that simple.  Karen lowered her head to Hillary’s shoulder and sobbed.  Her sobs didn’t shake her body, they were not the product of shock; there was even an element about them of relief.  Voerst, his eyes never leaving Hillary, poured tea and handed it across.  Now that she was busy, she felt fine; his attention was excessive and  almost embarrassing.  He kept too near.  His voice was too tender.  But the tea was very sweet and felt good going down.
“There is warm milk for the brave little girl,” he said quietly.  Karen reached for it backwards, her face still buried but her tears fewer.  Patiently he waited as she drank it.  He helped Hillary put her into bed.  He turned to go. 
“Your brother left word; he will return to town with the remains,” he said.  “That is no reason for you to leave; stay as a guest of the mine.  It will help little Karen to heal if she is away from her mother’s home.”
“That’s kind, Karl.  I’m in your debt.”
“Of course not.”  He got the tray and paused.  “Both Mrs. Bailey and Rosalie intend to call, although I tried to discourage them.  They mean no harm.” 
A wry smile quirked the corners of Hillary’s mouth.  She nodded. 
“Meantime,” he continued, “I can give your film to whomever else goes to town tonight.  They can deliver it to the little editor.”
“That would be good.”  Hillary found her camera, emptied it, and scooped the cartridges from the bottom of her case.  They fit into Karl’s shirt pockets.  As he left, he impulsively picked up her hand and kissed it on the palm.

Eleven

Hillary didn’t sleep.  When Brian entered the cabin she waited with her light on, but he evaded talk by going directly to bed.  They spent the night listening, through the thin wall, to one another toss.  At dawn Voerst’s car purred, then parked.  Brian’s breathing grew regular.  Karen’s footsteps lightly crossed the room and hesitated beyond the door.
“Come in,” Hillary called, and the child crawled under the coverlet and nestled onto her outstretched arm.
“I’ve been thinking, Aunt Hillary,” she finally said.
“Yes, love?”
“Nothing’s changed, is it?  I mean, I always thought mom was dead.  I mean I wasn’t sure, but you know; I just knew.  And I always knew she didn’t want to be gone, but she couldn’t help herself.”
“Yes.  We all knew she wanted to be with us.”
“I don’t think daddy knew.  But it’s the same anyhow, isn’t it?  There’s still three of us taking care of each other.  That’s the same as ever.”
The girl’s terrific need nearly silenced Hillary.  Unsteadily she said, groping for the right words, “Yes, Karen.  We take care of each other.  That’s always true.”
“Oh.”  Karen sighed and sniffed.  “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.  Your mother was a very beautiful woman.”
“And nice.”
“And nice.”
Karen rose onto her elbow and looked down.  Her face was wet.  “Well, you’re beautiful and nice too, Aunt Hillary.”
Hillary suffered a terrific spasm of love, of gratitude, of pity.  She gathered the girl to her and began to rock her.  The body was so small; the bones were so delicately made; the hair was so soft.  After a while Hillary noticed the bedsprings squeaking and realized she was smiling at the fiberboard ceiling.  She had committed herself to motherhood, and it had not been a choice; it was as imperative as breath.
“How about some breakfast, sweet-face?” she finally asked.

There was an unpleasant, gossipy undercurrent in the cafeteria.  Karl was waiting, and stood as they entered.  He insisted on seating them and getting their breakfasts from the slow-moving line.
Karen enthused as he distributed their food.  “Hey, Aunt Hill, isn’t this neat?  Mr. Voerst got me two kinds of syrup for my pancakes, and orange juice and cocoa!”  She eyed him with a proprietary air.  Hillary had put the girl’s hair into two old-fashioned braids; one had already lost its barrette.
“Potatoes and sausage too, dear,” she said.  “Remember to eat some of everything.”
“I’m sure she will,” Karl said loudly, solemnly.  His deep voice echoed against a field of curious faces.  “I’m sure that’s what makes her so healthy.”  Karen looked up from her syrups with an air of startled conscience.  “Did you ladies sleep well?”  In the same loud tone he continued their dull conversation.  Finally the stares turned away.
Karen excused herself to join Rosalie across the room and found her barrette on the floor.  Rosalie, reattaching it, called, “‘Till about eleven-fifteen or eleven-thirty, Hill?”
“Great, Rosie.  Thanks.”
“No bother.”
Karl pitched his voice back to normal.  “Do you plan to work this morning?”
“I need to write the story and e-mail it.  The paper is holding a page-one hole.”
“Can you do that?  Write for the public about your relative’s death?”
She looked straight at him, cutting a pancake.  “Yes.  My writing will be discreet.”  Karl’s gaze leapt from her eyes to her mouth and back to her eyes.  She returned to her breakfast.
“Did you really sleep?” he asked.
She nodded, dumping catsup onto hashbrowns.
“Did your brother?”
She scraped most of the red goo to the side of her plate.  “Not until dawn.  I heard you drive in.”
“You did not sleep, then.”
“Dozed.”  She forked a massive slab of potatoes, sausage and egg yolk into her mouth and stared at the table as she chewed.
“You do not want to talk.”
She shook her head and swallowed.  “Fuel,” she said, and pointed at her plate with her fork.  “If you can’t sleep, you eat, and it keeps you going.  Besides, I’m hungry.”  She forked another batch of hashed-browns into her mouth.  Karl chuckled.  After a minute she said, “Thanks for being here just now.”
“My pleasure.  And Hillary, I can understand your wish to write this article.  When my parents died, I had to handle...”  Voerst set his mug to one side and crossed his big arms on the table.  He became confidential.  “I mean, now I understand why you would do it; I hadn’t considered your reasons.  I wonder...no, that’s wrong.  Here: what I mean is, people defer to you.  They are proud to know you.  The sheriff is in love with you.”  Hillary’s eyebrows lifted.  “He is.  Mrs. Bailey salutes you, the mayor over there is too shy to approach, Altstock uses your name at inappropriate times.”  He raised a hand, palm out.  “No, I know why.  I am puzzled that you take no pleasure in this much power.  You seem to ignore them, even the people you presumably know from childhood.”  Hillary used her napkin and sipped coffee.  “Of course, you needn’t answer,” he said.  “It’s none of my business.”
“Do you think I’m cold?” she asked.
“No; but perhaps a little arrogant; negligent.”
“Of my power.  Over the Little People.”
“Yes.”
On his mouth there was not even a hint of a smile.  She poured more coffee from the carafe and offered with a gesture to pour for him.  He nodded.
“You always like this at the crack of dawn?” she asked.
Karl smiled, his teeth very white, his eyes very blue.  “Philosophical?  Yes, on the subject of power I am always philosophical.  You also study the subject.  As a political journalist its use is your special area.  And it holds a personal interest for you, I think.  With your basic indifference you hold a winning hand in a much larger game; larger than most people imagine.”  Hillary set down her cup, half amused.  “You are laughing.  Good.  But you are a hungry woman.  I believe your hunger stifles your pain for Gail Webster and lets you write indifferently about her horrible death.”
That stung.  Hillary rose briskly from the table and headed for the door.  But Karl was before her; he walked at her side across the compound to the office, then entered with her, checking Altstock’s room to see that they were alone. 
“Deny it, Hillary,” he dared her, and moved close.  “Power excites you as it does me.  You control yourself to achieve it.  Those frightening chances you took in two warfrontss: you surely have the Pulitzer for them.  The illness written in your face and tired body, which you ignore; what prize will it bring?  Your niece’s love?  You’ve already taken that from her mother; your brother’s love, too.  You have always had the sheriff’s.  So what is next?  Why do you force yourself to write this morning?  This personal story, this sensational news for the front page?  Is it to make yourself a force within even your small home town?  Is the game so obsessive...”
Hillary’s slap on his face glowed white, then red.  Karl smiled.
“Get out.”
“Do you want that?  Or do you want to control my opinion with your arguments?”
Her shoulders drooped.  No, she didn’t want him to leave until he understood the magnitude of loss involved in her sickness--and her need to protect her pride. 
“You’re wrong about me,” she said.  “I suffer more from ill health than from hubris.”
“That does not create isolation in your home town.”
“Yes, it does.”
“No.  You brought it with you and it is your fate, as it is mine.  You are planning your life after the prize, Hillary.  I can show you possibilities.  I will be here when you choose.”
“You’re arrogant.  Your thinking is puerile.”
“That’s possibly true.  However, I plan to be on your list of desirable options.  You are certainly included on mine.”  Suddenly, exuberantly, he lifted her with his big hands until she felt her hair brush the ceiling.  In her astonishment her hands went automatically for his shoulders; they could only reach as far as his biceps.  He smiled; she colored violently.  He lowered her, bussed her forehead, and was gone.
What had he said?  “Your niece’s love...your brother’s...”  Hillary shuddered.  She sat at the computer and addressed the dark screen.  “Rosalie, you’re right about him; something there is wrong.”  Then as she remembered how gently he set her on her feet, the sweetness of that kiss on her forehead.  “But it sure is interesting.”