Are All Stories Lies?

(Disclaimer: Everything I present here has been influenced by essays, articles and books I read as a student. I don’t want to claim anything as my original thought. Still, going back to find out who said what seems too much to tackle at the moment. Don’t think of this as me teaching my original wisdom. Think of it as sharing what I’ve learned.)

It’s time for us to face the truth: No matter how much we like to believe we might one day be invited into Camp Half-Blood, and no matter how much I’d love to get a bite of Vianne Rocher’s chocolate creations, these are not real things. Granted, I could certainly find “Nipples of Venus” and hot chocolate somewhere else, but I’ll never meet Vianne in real life. And, I’m sorry to say, you won’t meet any Greek gods anytime soon.

Stories Don’t Claim to be Genuine

Does that mean that all writers are pathological liars? That we lie to our readers? And is Rick Riordan the bigger offender, because his claims are so outrageous? Or rather Joanne Harris, whose novel could at least be somewhat true?

Well, in fact, none of the above. Storytelling isn’t lying. And here’s the reason: It doesn’t claim to be genuine.

Stories are Clearly Marked as Stories

Most fairy tales will begin with some invocation or other: “Once upon a time…”, “There lived a baker and his wife…” – You get the drift. From the get-go, these phrases tell us to not believe everything we hear. They serve as a kind of warning: What you will read is not true. But you should imagine it is. And therefore, they do not lie.

If we stick to Percy Jackson as an example, however, we will find this line: “If you’re reading this because you think you might be [a half-blood], my advice is: close this book right now. “ – Suddenly, the narrator addresses us as if we were part of the universe. Rick Riordan cleverly creates a “reality effect” that blurs the line between fact and fiction. — But does it really?

In Percy Jackson, as in Chocolat, there are certain elements in their paratexts that remind us that a text is indeed fiction: there’s forewords, acknowledgements, dedications, title pages, reviews, etc. As long as the necessary context is given, no reader will feel lied to by a story. Even if the story itself claims to be true.

They will, however, feel cheated, when we claim to write honestly about real events, when in fact we are creating fiction: Take James Frey, the guy who wrote the bestselling “memoir” A Million Little Pieces. When word got out that he invented some of the most interesting parts, the public tore him more than one new one. Not because the story itself was bad – but because it had presented itself as reality, not fiction. Readers demand honesty of the author, not of the story itself.

There is Nothing Real in a Story

One last point, before we move on: We could really dive in the deep end here and ask ourselves: What is reality? Or can there even be a reality? But I’ll spare you that thought.

I’ll tell you, however, that you cannot capture any reality (yours, mine or a universal one) by writing. Even if you write about existing places, people or events – these worlds will only be your interpretation of them, not the real thing.

No matter how well The Crown might be researched, no matter how accurately Claire Foy portrays the young Queen Elisabeth, no one can say: This is the truth. This happened. Because it didn’t. It’s merely presenting one way of looking at history, one interpretation. It’s not what happened, but what might have happened.

Have I confused you? No worries. In this table, I’ve tried to categorise things a bit more neatly.

More questions? Ask me in the comments below. If not, let’s continue.

Storytelling is Mediated Narration

Author vs Narrator

I’m sure you’ll all have learned this in school: The author is not the narrator. Rick Riordan is not the one telling us the story of Percy and his friends – Percy himself is. Joanne Harris isn’t telling us the story of Vianne Rocher – Vianne herself is. Other times, we might utilise unnamed narrators. — The author is only the mediator between the narration and the actual reader.

What this means, is that we have to distinguish between two roles: Authors are real but not genuine: They don’t claim their stories to be true. Narrators are imaginary but absolutely genuine: At least, they claim that what they tell us is true. That’s why we can have unreliable narrators, but not unreliable authors. The narrator says: “Believe me! It happened this way.” The author says: “Imagine it happened this way.”

Only rarely does the border between authorship and narration conflate. Rare examples include Dracula, where Bram Stoker (much like the marketing geniuses behind The Blair Witch Project, merely claims to have found the text he is presenting, or A Series of Unfortunate Events, where the narrator Lemony Snicket is portrayed as the author of the books, while Daniel Handler, the actual author, plays the part of his assistant.

But despite this illusion, these authors do not lie to us. Why? Because they trust our intelligence. The found footage of Dracula, as well as the “carefully curated” content of Unfortunate Events, are designed to be unbelievable. Their exaggeration signals to us that this is something bigger than reality. It is story. And so we suspend our disbelief.

Story Exists on Different Levels

What we learned in the previous section, could also be formulated thus: Authors don’t tell us their stories; they tell us of narrators that tell their stories.

If we take this one step further, the actual act of telling a story will suddenly look like this (which is very heavily influenced by Manfred Pfister):

Confused? Me too. Let’s digest this.

Inside the narrated world, the events simply unfold. The plot just happens. However, it doesn’t become a story until someone tells it. So, that’s what happens:

A fictional narrator takes the plot and tells it to someone, who I’ve decided to call the narratee. This can be a specific person, or simply a readership – think of Jane Eyre’s “Reader”, for example.

Here’s the catch: Narrators don’t have to be truthful. They can lie to their listeners/readers, deceive them, make everything up. The story is their retelling of the plot. Their version and the plot-reality can agree to the last detail and they can differ completely. Most of the time, it’s somewhere in-between.

Finally, the author and the reader join the club. In an ideal world, I’d simply say this: The author quotes the narrator’s story to the reader. Simple, right?

Well, sadly there’s a caveat: During communication, things get lost. Intended meaning, interpretations etc. In reality, authors quote the story to an idealised, implied reader they have formed in their minds – an ideal reader who knows exactly what they are saying. And, in the same fashion, readers read texts as if quoted by their ideal author – someone who means exactly to say what they think is said in the text.

In short: We write texts differently than readers read them. Shocker, right?

But it’s something to keep in mind: We, the authors, are never truly in control of the stories we tell (or quote). They have a life of their own. And that’s the beauty of writing.

What Can We Learn from this?

I’ll admit: This post has rambled on longer than my attention span would normally allow. So, here’s the lessons I have found in this, short and sweet. Just like myself.

1. Think of your narrator as another character, even if he doesn’t feature in the story.
2. Be aware that you yourself cannot lie to the reader. But your narrator can.
3. By tinkering with the presentation of your story, you can make it seem more real. But know where to draw the line.
4. Your story doesn’t belong to you. You share it with its narrator(s) and reader(s). So, don’t think you’re the ultimate authority on it.
5. Storytelling is way more complex than you might think at first glance. But that’s what makes it so much fun.

Happy writing,
F.G.

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