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Career
Day at school. It reminds me of
the movies I’ve seen where there’s always one little boy over in the corner
who’s ashamed of his mother or father’s vocation. “No Dad, I don’t want you to come in and explain
what you do. Proctology is embarrassing.” “What
does your Mom do?” my son’s friend asked. “She writes fiction.” “What’s
that mean?” “She
makes up stories and writes them down.” “She
lies?” “No,
Mom would never do that!” “Well,
if she’s making up stories, it’s the same as lying.” “Mom,
are you a liar?” my distraught
son asked. Not
privy to the previous after-school conversation, I dropped the heavy metal
spoon in the sink and replied. “Heavens no! Why on earth would you ask that?” “Well,
Raymond asked me what you do, and I said you write fiction.
Remember when I asked you and you said that’s what I should say?” “Yes,
but that doesn’t mean I lie,” I scolded. “Well,
then what does it mean?” he asked, completely puzzled by now. “Well,”
I hesitated. “It means I use my
imagination to invent stories that I think people would enjoy reading.”
There, that wasn’t so bad, I told myself. “So,
as long as you tell people it’s a lie, then it isn’t bad?” he grinned,
absolutely aware of the predicament he’d put me in. Little boys love to watch their Mothers squirm.
It gives them a feeling of accomplishment, since the role is suddenly
reversed. “Where
are we headed with this conversation?” I asked, glaring at him. “Oh,
nowhere in particular,” he reveled. “I just wondered how I was going to explain
your vocation on career day.” “Oh,
I see. Well, I’d be glad to come
in and talk to your class if you’d like.” There’s always a certain amount of pride when
your child wants to ‘show you off.’ “No,
no, that won’t be necessary. I think it’d be too confusing,” he stuttered. “Writing fiction is a tricky thing to explain.
I guess I understand it, but I don’t think the class would.” “Oh,”
I said, disappointed. “Well, then
why don’t you just say I’m an author?” “Okay,”
he shrugged. “No big deal.” No
big deal? Another of the countless
times my child originates a conversation, follows it through to his satisfaction,
and leaves me hanging in mid air. What do I do? What’s the difference in lying and writing fiction? Maybe there is none. I feel that old familiar chill skim down my
spine and explode in a full-body spasm.
I shake it off, but stare into space. I
opt to look up the word ‘lie’ first. Its definition is “to utter untruth; to misrepresent;
to deceive, to make false statement.” I stare at those words for several minutes, thinking to myself.
I don’t utter anything when I write.
I don’t intentionally misrepresent or deceive.
I just invent characters and happenings.
This is good. I
don’t think I lie. Then
I flip back to the f section, page 143, and find the word fiction
about halfway down on the right hand page, left column.
It reads, “literature dealing with imaginary characters and situations;
something invented or imagined.” “That’s
it! That’s the difference,” I
whisper to myself. “Lies are made
up statements representing the truth. Writing fiction is making up characters and
situations, and if the characters and situations are made up, then of
course the statements are imagined as well.
They don’t represent the truth.” I
sit at my desk for a few seconds waiting for the wave of relief to wash
over me. It doesn’t come.
Do I really want to say my characters and situations don’t represent
the truth? This is getting too complicated, I tell myself. I
get up from my desk, sigh, and walk back to my son’s bedroom door.
It’s ajar just enough for me to see him playing a video game.
His eyes are wide, and his shoulders shrug slightly, but quickly,
first to the left, and then the right.
I realize that he’s already forgotten the all-important statement
he made to me. The one I really can’t explain to my satisfaction. “I just wondered how I was going to explain your vocation on career day.”
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