Fiction With a Slice of Truth

Fact and fiction are, by definition, two rigidly separate things. Upon closer examination, however, the border between the two proves to be somewhat fluid. Imagine, for a moment, that you are seated at a dark wooden table. Directly in front of you is a white ceramic mug partially full of dark coffee, with steam rising steadily from its surface. In reality, this object does not exist. However, in your mind it is unquestionably real; the coffee cup is unquestionably right in front of you. Now, if you assume, for the day, that the events that transpire in your imagination are just as much a part of reality as those which are able to be observed by others, you have just established that your thoughts can be considered actions that have come to pass. For instance, if somebody asks you, “What did you do today?” you can reply, “I had a cup of coffee.” Unless you are widely regarded as a liar, your words immediately become fact to the person inquiring: today, you drank coffee. If the same person poses the question, “What did you think about today?” then the response, “I thought about having a cup of coffee,” is still equally applicable. From your perspective, both events actually transpired, so neither of your answers is false. Nevertheless, to your companion, thought and action are two distinctly separate ideas. According to this belief, if when posed the question, “What did you do today?” you reply, “I had a cup of coffee,” but later say, “Actually, I only thought about having a cup of coffee,” then your companion will immediately assume that you are disproving your previous statement, thereby turning fact into fiction. However, since these thoughts sparked a tangible emotional response, the experience does not lose its authenticity even though it took place inside your brain. Emotions can turn fiction into fact. In this manner, in the role of author Tim O’Brien, you could combine the thoughts you had in Vietnam with the events you experienced as a catalyst for fabrication of a new kind of truth. You could write, “When Ted Lavender was shot, they used his poncho to wrap him up, then to carry him across the paddy, then to lift him into the chopper that took him away,” and never have to specify which portion of this statement was factual because it is true that dead soldiers were wrapped in ponchos and lifted into the air by helicopters (O’Brien 3). Or, you could conjure up something barely believable and associate it with emotions you had actually felt at some point, and because of those palpable emotions and your credibility, no sympathetic individual would question its validity. So, it appears that fiction can be truth if it is not established as fallacy, and yet fiction can also be truth because it conveys feelings, which are their own kind of truth.