My Au-some Autism Playlist

“Music expresses that which cannot be said, and on which it is impossible to be silent.” – Victor Hugo

We all find ways of coping with the challenges of Spectrum life.  I run, I write.  I pray a lot.  Music is also pretty high on my list.

When the love I feel for my children  – the joy, the fears, the admiration, the protectiveness – builds up inside me to the point that it is inexpressible with mere words, I turn to music.  Maybe it’s a sad song that mirrors my fears, or a rousing anthem that spurs me toward my next goal.  Maybe it's one of those angry songs that rails at the inequities in life.  But if a song grabs my heart, it's because it has expressed something that mere words cannot.

These are those songs – it’s my Au-some Autism Playlist.  While they don’t all, word for word, match every emotion I have felt during the past six years since we were diagnosed, they do represent a nice spectrum of feelings that, to me, represent what’s most important in this journey – Love, acceptance, bravery, determination and spirit.

What songs are on your list?

SHOOTING STAR by Owl City

I'LL STAND BY YOU by The Pretenders

BRAVE by Josh Groban

PARADISE by Coldplay

WHAT KIND OF WORLD DO YOU WANT by Five for Fighting

I'LL BE THERE by Jackson 5

IT'S TIME by Imagine Dragons

HOW SOON IS NOW? by The Smiths

YOU'LL BE IN MY HEART by Phil Collins

TRUE COLORS by Cyndi Lauper

GOLD by Owl City

CHANGING COLORS by Josh Groban

I would love to hear about the songs on your list!

Out of Left Field

What’s wrong with this desk?

If you are quickly finding room for ascetic improvements, back up a minute.  I’m asking a simpler question:  If you need to take a test and you walk into a classroom full of these desks, are you going to pull out your #2 pencil or are you going to tell the instructor you have a problem?

Roughly ten percent of us are going to ask for a different desk – the one in the picture does not work with our neurology.

No worries, right?  Left-handedness is no big deal.  Schools usually have accommodations for Lefties – many desks are universal these days.  Sure, we’re going to leave the test with a big smear of lead across the side of our hands, but no one is going to point at us, stare at us or whisper about our neuro-differences.

But that wasn’t always the case.  It was not so long ago that Lefties were treated severely by educators and even parents until they “learned” to use the “correct” hand.  My grandmother was spanked by a school teacher and had her left hand tied behind her back – until her father marched down to the school and put a stop to that nonsense.  (I think he was a rarity in the 1920s).  I have another relative who was told that her left-handedness was a disability – that she would never be able to drive a car, get a meaningful job, or be able to manage a household.

According to Stanley Coren’s 1992 book, The Left-Hander Syndrome, Lefties have been historically maligned as evil, lazy, neurotic, rebellious or criminal.  Even the definition of the word “left” has negative associations in many languages and cultures:  wicked, weak, broken, inapt, clumsy, inauspicious, illegitimate, doubtful, impaired, handicapped, disabled.

You would think, as a Leftie, I would find this history disheartening.  Actually, it makes me quite happy.

Why?  Because almost no one thinks that way anymore, and I find hope in that.  If within a century, people can change their thinking about the deficits of left-handedness, can’t another century mean changed thoughts about Autism? 

Yes, I know that the challenges of being left-handed are VASTLY different than the challenges of having autism – in degree, depth, severity, stigma and every way imaginable.  My child has autism – I get that it’s not the same thing.  I’m not really trying to draw a direct comparison or suggest that history or even the future will treat the two as perfect parallels. 

However, I do think there are two significant ways in which my analogy can be helpful – or at least hopeful.

First, left-handed people succeed by adapting to a right-handed world.  Maybe it’s not fair, but it IS the way things ARE.  There are all kinds of statistics that demonstrate the seemingly hidden ways in which the constructs of our society are geared toward Righties – including those that suggest an earlier death for Lefties!  So we must adapt to survive.  Whether it’s learning to be proficient in certain skills with our right hands, or creating our own work-arounds, Lefties often have no choice but to modify their actions to fit the right-handed world.  We learn very quickly that the world will never be redesigned to fit the needs of ten percent of the population.

This is the same for people on the spectrum.  We can’t always quiet the world.  There are not always places for stemming, it is not always okay to hum out loud or shout with frustration.  Sometimes that food needs to be swallowed and that shoe needs to be tied.  We teach our autistic kids to adapt to the neurotypical world – when they can and at a rate that they can handle – because it’s impossible to recreate the world for their neurology. 

The advantages are obvious, numerous and exponential.  When I was a child and no left-handed scissors were available to me, I learned to cut with my right hand.  I was clumsy at first and not too happy about it, but I did succeed.  That success made me confident and gave me a skill that many people don’t have – I now am completely ambidextrous with scissors.  Kids with autism can similarly succeed with typical milestones, gain confidence and broaden the spectrum of their own capabilities.  This can, in turn, instill them with talents and fortitude that many of their typical peers will not have.

But there’s no denying that sometimes the world needs to change to accommodate the minority, and that’s my second point.  Let’s go back to the desk.  I can’t use one of those desks.  Being forced to try would damage my ability to learn – my muscles would be strained and perhaps even injured, my mood and concentration would interfere and, ultimately, I would fail to reach my potential – all because a piece of equipment meant to aid my education had, in fact, interfered with it.

Are there standard pieces of equipment, processes, settings, expectations, norms and instructional models that will not ever fit your autistic child?  Of course there are!  These are things we need to work to change, making the world accommodate Spectrum neurology – even though it represents a small percentage of society.

In 2013, left-handed students across the nation are accommodated without any fanfare – with hardly a person noticing.  I have known people for years who will suddenly exclaim, “I didn’t know you were left-handed!”  That’s because it’s now accepted that my type of neurology occurs in society – rarely, maybe, (if 10 percent is truly “rare”) – but frequently enough that people accept it now without a negative stigma.

And, yes!  Society needs to make even greater strides to accommodate those on the autism spectrum.  We shouldn’t expect autistic people to become neurotypical any more than we should expect Lefties to write with their right hands. 

Forward-thinking employers in America are already beginning to make adjustments for their valuable autistic employees – everything from removing harsh lighting over one employee’s workspace to putting another one in a quiet corner so she can work without the distraction of socializing co-workers.  In schools, students with autism are being given space to stem, they are seated closer to the teacher, offered headphones, given quiet spaces for test taking.  IEPs (individual education plans) are created to tailor-fit accommodations for a student’s particular needs – it doesn’t need to be one-size-fits-all!  And as time passes and awareness merges with education and respect, more teachers, therapists and administrators will understand the nuances of the spectrum and more quickly respond to your child’s unique needs.

I know my analogy is not perfect.  Perhaps some even think it’s silly to compare something as benign as left-handedness to autism.  But I hope that, like me, you see benefit to putting aside labels and assumptions that don’t fit and stem from ignorance.  I hope you can imagine a future where autistic kids are given an opportunity to fulfill their potential – without ever being asked to change their neurology.

I hope that a future is coming where those on the spectrum are regarded with the same kind of equal respect that is now typically given to Lefties – as neurologically different, but no less valued as members of our families, society and economy.

Reference source: Random History's Facts about Left-Handedness

CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: Raising Kids on the Spectrum

“I can remember the frustration of not being able to talk. 

I knew what I wanted to say, but I could not get the words out, 

so I would just scream.”  —Temple Grandin

How can you be heard if you can't speak?  How can you tell your story if people don't understand your language?  How will the neurotypical world know what living on the spectrum is really like from day to day, if we don't show them?

From the day my son was diagnosed with Autism, one of my biggest concerns was whether people would take the time to understand him.  So when Chicken Soup for the Soul announced last year that they were publishing a book of personal stories about kids with Autism and Asperger's, I knew I wanted to be part of it.

CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: Raising Kids on the Spectrum hits bookstore shelves today, marking the sixth annual World Autism Awareness Day and the beginning of Autism Awareness Month.  My story, "The Art of Hope," can be found on page 48.

As a contributor, I received my copy early and have had the privilege this past week to read through the rest of the stories, submitted by gifted writers all over North America who speak candidly from the heart about their personal journeys on the spectrum.

I read about compassion and cried; I read about ignorance and stewed.  Their tenacity made me proud and their humor made me laugh.  Some spoke of traits that were familiar to me while others opened my eyes to colors on the spectrum we have not experienced at all in my home.

Universally, though, they wrote of joy and hope.  The struggle for it, the unwavering belief in it, the way it flickers at times or seems ever at arms’ length – and then the suddenness of its presence, the brightness of its glow.

I won’t attempt to reframe their words.  You need to read these stories for yourself.  I will tell you that they are bursting with love and patience and courage.  I am honored to be named among them.

Follow these links to buy your own copy of CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: Raising Kids on the Spectrum:

Buy it on Amazon

Buy it on Barnes and Noble

Bluegrass

I’m turning a corner, ducking under low beams, rummaging through a thrift shop by myself, when suddenly, I’m not alone.

She is not really here, but I smell her scent on the air as if she has just come to lay her hand on my shoulder.  Bluegrass Perfume.  It’s too rare to be worn by another shopper.  If you ask for it at the Elizabeth Arden counter, they may have one bottle, tucked away in the back of a cabinet.  Besides, when I turn in a full circle, I confirm what I already knew.  I am alone.

It’s been fifteen years since we lost her.  My sisters and I called her Nana and she was ours and ours alone.  We had no cousins to share her with – my mother’s only brother died in infancy – but we shared her with everyone.  Our friends, our dates – eventually our husbands – all felt welcome at Nana’s house, where the living room was cooled by the constant buzz of oscillating fans, the pristine kitchen smelled of Wrigley’s Double Mint and the pink and mauve-tiled bathroom was always open for pedicures or deep late night conversation.  Nana’s house even had a mascot – ChaCha, her white mop of a mutt who loved her owner almost as much as she was loved in return.

But these are all just memories now.  ChaCha died and the house was sold.  And after battling kidney disease for almost two decades, Nana went on to join her son beyond the Jordan.

So how is it that I come to smell Bluegrass as I’m going about my day?  It doesn’t just happen in the thrift store – it’s while I’m grabbing my daughter’s towel off the floor, or reaching for an overdue library book on my bedside table.  It’s happened to my sisters too.  The moments are rare, but they’re real, catching me off guard each time, making me smile – and remember.

When we were little girls living far away, Nana sent us packages for our birthdays.  She gave us handmade clothing, rolls of dimes and books.  “I always read them first so I know there's nothing bad in them,” she said.  And no matter whose birthday it was, we all got gifts. 

When Nana came to visit, she flew on a big yellow plane that we called the flying banana.  For a while, whenever I saw one in the sky, I thought maybe she was on it.  Sometimes we would drive to Arizona to see her.  I remember arriving at her house after dark and being bewildered by the hot desert air, thrilled to be given a new coloring book and to have her tuck me in with promises of a fun tomorrow.

When I was older, we moved to Arizona and our time spent with Nana was more frequent, but no less dear.  She taught me how to make a cake from scratch.  “Sift the flour twice,” she said.  I loved watching her hands when she baked.  Her carrot cake was legendary.  She also taught me to sew.  I thought I would just watch that first time, but she said no.  Instead, she stood patiently at my shoulder while I inexpertly steered purple calico through her Viking, a sewing machine I eventually used to make my wedding dress – the sewing machine I still use today.

I’ll never forget Nana’s advice about unwanted attention when my sisters and I were dating.   “If you don’t want to go out with a boy, you just tell them you have plans with Nana,” she would tell us.  “We’ll take a drive around the block if we have to, just so it’s not a lie.”

Nana had this beautiful orchid tree that bloomed in the spring time, creating a canopy over the driveway that made her tiny blue house seem a glorious place.  Her porch swing was one of my favorite spots to enjoy a book and a glass of sun tea.  One day, too many of our friends got on the swing and it broke, crashing to the concrete in a pile of splintered wood and laughter.  Nana didn't get mad, she laughed along with us.

Nana always looked so lovely.  Her clothing clean and expertly fitted, her hair white and smooth, maintained by weekly salon visits.  People couldn’t tell she was getting sicker – that’s how good she looked.  But we knew.   Two of us lived with her over the years, which was as big a help to us, struggling college students, as it was to her. 

I remember giving ChaCha her baths when they became too much for Nana.  We washed her with purple shampoo that kept her white coat from turning yellow.  The spoiled little thing wouldn’t eat dog food, so Nana cooked for her, ignoring the vet’s admonitions.  I sometimes tried to take her for a walk around the block, but always ended up carrying her home.  I remember too the day ChaCha died – seeing my stoic mother crying in Nana’s driveway and then sitting with Nana in her room that night as she cried herself to sleep.

When the time came for Nana to leave her little house and move in with my parents, she was heartbroken.   She was so independent, and her heart was always stronger than her body.  But she adjusted well – aside from having her car keys taken away, I think.  I visited often after my son was born and Nana would hold him while I cooked dinner.  “Is he too heavy for you, Nana?” I asked.  “No, he’s just perfect,” she said.

Nana died peacefully in her sleep when my son was less than a year old, just weeks before her second great grandson would be born.  She was a gentle warrior, who, even the day before she died, insisted she would fight as long as she had breath.

We don’t build monuments for people like Nana – those who live quiet lives, heroes to a few, unknown to most.  And that’s okay, I guess.  My memories of her are too important for a monument – some place only to be visited on holidays.  I need them every day.  And I remember her every day.

But what about Bluegrass days?

I think they come because sometimes I forget the bigger picture – what it must have taken for her to create the memories I hold so dear.   That she had experienced great sorrow in her life, but reflected joy.  That she was sick, but didn’t let that stop her from being productive.  That she was poor, but held herself with the grace and dignity of a queen.  With the little she had, Nana made sure that three little girls – and then three young ladies – knew without a doubt that they were the center of her world.

I am folding laundry.  I am dusting a bookshelf.  I smell Bluegrass.  In the middle of my quiet day, I remember that life may be mundane, but it’s never irrelevant.  I remember that even when I am sick, I can be joyful – that love will conquer sorrow.  I am inspired to care so deeply that my loved ones will never, ever doubt their importance to me.  I am inspired to someday be remembered with a smile.

O, Love!

If you are alone this Valentine’s Day, I am writing this for you. 

Whether you ignore the day, share the occasion with friends or spend the holiday alone, you should know that romance does not belong to the paired, the settled, or even those flush with new love.  It is not encumbered with hearts cut from paper, chocolates or rose petals. 

It is not trademarked by Hallmark.

Can love be bought and sold?  Is it exchangeable for a diamond pendant or a candlelit dinner? 

And is a heart that hopes less tender?  Is a heart that has lost less true?

I’m not cynical and I’m not trying to be maudlin, just real.  Because when I look at the true masters of romance – the poets – I can’t help noticing that the stuff they write is too deep for Valentine’s Day. 

Here are some of my favorite bits of poetry on romance – and none of it would work on a greeting card.

Love leaves.  William Butler Yeats wrote of this in a heartbreaking poem called “When you are Old,” calling on his long lost love to remember at life’s end, “the one man who loved the pilgrim soul in you.”

                                …murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

                                And paced upon the mountains overhead

                                And hid his face amid a crowd of star.

Love strays.  Mary Carolyn Davies wrote “A Man’s Woman” about her plans to don difficulty to keep her man constant:

…I was swift to do for him in every sort of way,

Thinking of his comfort, forgetting self each day,

I was loyal, faithful, devoted, kind and true

That is why I bored him – if women only knew!

I shall be capricious, I shall have a whim,

And neither earth, nor sea nor sky shall rob me then of him.

Love weakens.  Is there anything that makes a person feel more vulnerable than opening herself to love?  Percy Shelley feared the weakening power of love, and wrote of it in “The Flight of Love:”

…O Love! Who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high;

…Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Love forgets.  In her poem, “Memory,” Helen Hoyt wrote about the end of love:

I can remember our sorrow, I can remember our laughter;

I know that surely we kissed and cried and ate together;

…But I cannot remember our love,

 I cannot remember our love.

Love dies. And, of course, here we must turn to Edgar Allen Poe, who wrote the heartbreaking “To One in Paradise” for one not lost to inconstancy, but to death:

Thou wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine:

A green isle in the sea, love,

A fountain and a shrine…

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope, that did arise

But to be overcast!

…And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams

Are where thy dark eye glances,

And where thy footstep gleams—

In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

But, before you resign yourself to a quart of Cherry Garcia and a box of tissues, don’t forget—

Love hopes.  Ralph Waldo Emerson reminds us in “Give All to Love,” that when love does come our way, we must embrace it!

Give all to love;

Obey thy heart;

… ‘Tis a brave master;

Let it have scope:

Follow it utterly,

Hope beyond hope…

All That Echoes -- A Review of Josh Groban's new album

Produced by Reprise Records, A Warner Music group Company

Long anticipated by fans, Josh Groban’s sixth studio album, All That Echoes, was released on Tuesday, February 5.  

Don’t you love the title?  I won’t say that Josh has been reading my blog, Wake of Echoes, but I will say that great minds think alike. I got my copy in the mail Monday (happy dance) and have since pretty much hijacked my husband’s fancy stereo.

When an artist has a fan base that ranges from tweens to great grandmas, there’s always a chance that he’ll begin to appeal to one end of that spectrum at the expense of the other – especially when new producers are involved, which has been true of both his fifth album, Illuminations (Rick Rubin), and All That Echoes (Rob Cavallo)*.

 

But not to worry.  Josh is not a wedding singer, an opera wanna-be or a Vegas gonna-be.  He’s not going to press an album every two years filled with easy-listening vanilla, just because it would sell. 

All That Echoes solidifies Josh’s genius as a musician, not a crooner, though his voice is unparalleled. It pushes, explores and creates without alienating.  It draws on all of his strengths, with exquisite orchestration that compliments a voice more tuned to my ear every year. 

The title hints at its content – echoes of all that Josh has done before and all that we can expect in the future.  This long-time fan is excited to see it all unfold on tour soon.  (Please come back to Boise, Josh!) 

Here’s my song-by-song review:

BRAVE  — Bright, genuine instrumentation.  The sunrise of All That Echoes, waking us to our potential. 

“Brave” is the latest addition to a playlist of inspiration that began with “You’re Still You” on Josh’s self-titled debut, and peaked (no pun intended) with Closer’s “You Raise Me Up,” which hit #1 on Billboard’s Hot Adult Contemporary Chart in 2004.  The theme continued with “You Are Loved (Don’t Give Up)” on Awake and “Hidden Away” on Illuminations.  Josh never drops this touchstone of hope that connects him most endearingly to his fans. (Groban/Salter/Kreviazuk)

FALSE ALARMS  —  Letting go means accepting that part of you never will.

Josh convincingly moves to his higher register in “False Alarms,” creating a sense of musical openness that brings the lyrics to life.  (Groban/Mendez)

FALLING SLOWLY — Ah, Josh.  Take my hand and lead me down the midnight streets of Dublin.  

“Falling Slowly” comes from the Tony-Award-winning Broadway Musical Once.  I’m dying to see it.  I would have liked to hear a little bit of harmony on this one, but I figure he was thinking: Jennifer likes to sing along in the car.  Thanks for leaving a place for me, Josh. (Hansard/Irglova)

SHE MOVED THROUGH THE FAIR — Gallant tones that make me want to hunt down the family tartan and take a breathless climb up to Dunguaire Castle.

This traditional Irish folk song is a perfect pick for Josh and reminiscent of similar favorites of mine, like “Molly Ban” by Alison Krauss and the Chieftains, and “Parting Glass” on Ed Sheeran’s debut + (a hidden track after “Give Me Love”).

BELOW THE LINE — Lively motivation to act from the heart.

Josh reminds us to “find our strength in love” in this vibrant call to consider the unfortunate in this world.  Musically, the message carries weight by paying homage to one of Josh’s childhood favorites, Paul Simon’s Graceland.  (Groban/Salter/Wilcox)

E TI PROMETTERO — If you think Italian songs carry the weight of rich lasagna, consider “E Ti Promettero” as a fresher dish.  I’m thinking Chicken Marsala. 

Josh’s voice is well complimented by Italian singer Laura Pausini – a perfect recipe.  And now I’m hungry. (Groban/Mendez/Salter/Marinangeli)

THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS — If “Brave” woke you up, “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress” will tuck you in.

This cover (recorded decades ago by both Joe Cocker and Glen Campbell) demonstrates Josh’s soft spot for sad songs, and is tonally similar to the beautiful “Galileo” on Illuminations.  The perfect voice and orchestration to illuminate loneliness. (Web)

UN ALMA MAS — Mmm.  ¡Que maravilla! 

Close your eyes.  Okay, open them again.  You can’t read with your eyes closed.  But imagine this:  Black and white film, a midcentury bandstand.  Josh and the band dressed in white suits with hair slicked back while dancers move across a marble floor.  Then the amazing Arturo Sandoval lifts his trumpet and begins to play along.  Stunning.  (Groban/Mendez/Salter/Brant)

HAPPY IN MY HEARTACHE — American.  Lemonade.  Grass between your toes. 

This song is masculine and vulnerable, featuring Josh’s signature piano work as well as a lovely little bit of acoustic guitar (played by producer Rob Cavallo).  Musically, it reminds me of “Simple Love” by Alison Krauss or maybe a nonspecific Don Williams song my parents listened to when I was a little kid. (Groban/Salter)

HOLLOW TALK — Echoes, shadows.  This song is. Just. So. Cool. 

Originally performed and written by the Danish band, Choir of Young Believers, “Hollow Talk” has lyrics I don’t understand and music that seeps into my bones.  Josh’s interpretation replaces electronic orchestration with the real deal – and kicks it up with a haunting Zeppelin-esque interlude.  I can’t wait to see it live. (Makrigiannis/Rhedin/Nordsoe)

SINCERA — Stolen kisses, secret letters, vine-covered towers, a balcony serenade. (Sigh).

Josh has recorded so many songs that should inspire men to mount steeds, storm castles and kiss their women as if there were no tomorrow.  (“Per Te” from Closer and “Straight to You” from Illuminations also come to mind).  Guys, seriously – let this song motivate you.  “Sincera” is now at the top of my swoon list.  Actually, it makes me want to plot novels in the Italian countryside.  (Groban/Afanasieff/Marinangeli)

I BELIEVE (WHEN I FALL IN LOVE IT WILL BE FOREVER) — A concert-ready, full-blown crescendo.

This Stevie Wonder-penned anthem has been waiting 40 years to meet Josh’s vocal chords.  His cover is fresh, lively and hopeful with inspired emphasis on strings and a perfectly balanced choral arrangement. Fantastic. (Wonder/Wright)

My sisters and I at Josh's "Straight to You" concert in Portland

Bonus Tracks:

CHANGING COLORS — You look at me with uncertainty, You look at me with urgency.  You look at me with fear in your eyes, Like you’re about to fall away…

This song is undoubtedly about the stages of life; it could also be about terminal illness.   But for me, it’s about a parent who is saying “I’m right there with you” to a child with special needs**.  Maybe that’s because I first heard Josh sing it in a live recording from the 2008 Bridge School Concert†.  THANK YOU, Josh, for lending your voice to this special school and supporting those who struggle with communication.  It means a lot to this Spectrum mama. (Dekker)

SATELLITE — Ethereal, familiar, resonant.

Josh’s unique voice, stellar instrumentation and subtle harmonies honor rather than detract from Dave Matthew’s hit.

GRAZIE — Humble appreciation of honesty in a world that deceives.

Josh sings this very personal song of thanks to family, friends and fans in his classical open style.  His humanity and tonal purity shine.  (Groban/Afanasieff/Marinangeli)

PLAY ME — Nostalgic ode to love-struck counterparts.

Josh performed this breathtaking cover as an encore each night on his “Straight To You” tour, explaining that sometimes a singer just has to ask himself, “What would Neil Diamond do?” (Diamond)

*David Foster produced all of Groban’s previous albums.

**I wrote about this in a previous post, “I’m Jumping on the Spectrum.” http://wakeofechoes.blogspot.com/2011/04/im-jumping-on-spectrum.html

†The annual Bridge School Concert, organized by Neil Young, benefits individuals with severe speech and physical impairments. http://www.bridgeschool.org/   Josh Groban’s charity, Find Your Light, also does oodles of good things for kids all over the world. http://findyourlightfoundation.org/

[My only criticism is of the liner notes, where I found a few typos.  Most notably, producer and songwriter Walter Afanasieff’s name was misspelled twice.]

Truth in Fiction

As children, we are taught that nonfiction means a story is true, while fiction means a story was made up by the author.  But is it really that simple?

I don’t think so.

For a moment, I want you to forget what you’ve been taught.  I want to explain why fiction is all about truth. 

It is not one truth, of course, or one person’s truth.  Instead, it is a million truths, pulled from a million lives, all cut up into pieces and pasted together like a mosaic.  It’s a new story now.  It’s fiction, but real enough that when a reader draws close and examines bits of character, plot, motivation and experience, she can say: “That part is me.”

I know many people who dismiss the value fiction.  I’m sure you know them too.  They are the ones who interrupt an anecdote you are telling to ask, “Is this a true story?”  They are the ones who stop listening when you admit that it came from a novel.

Part of me understands.  I’m a truth seeker and a skeptic.  Those online stories friends share on facebook and through e-mails?  I’m always looking them up, verifying truth and lies. 

So why does it bother me when readers dismiss fiction in favor of “truth”?

I’m sure it begins with the fact that I am a writer of fiction.  I’ll admit that I am offended by the notion that what I write is false fluff.  I take great care with character development and spend hours researching facts and histories to make my stories, if not true, authentic.  I won’t put a tree on a canyon ledge unless it could grow there.  A bird won’t rest on its branches unless it is indigenous to the area.  If my character fills a prescription, you better believe I checked to make sure that whatever she’s taking is real, and currently on the market.  (I often want to ask those skeptics:  do you think I just make these details up?)

But truth in fiction goes beyond my ego as a writer.  Long before I wrote, I read.  Avidly.  Voraciously.  And, yes, I was captivated by the fantastic, the mythical – the mysterious and the foreign.  But where was I touched? When did I cry or laugh?  What stuck with me after I turned the last page?  Truth.  The connection I felt with the very real traits I read in my favorite characters.  Anne Elliot. Jane Eyre. Melanie Wilkes. Anjuli Bai. Scout Finch. Katniss Everdeen. Abilene Cooper.  They are real because, in some way or another, they are me.

Not every story can be told as truth.  People experience pain and struggles in their lives that are intrinsically private.  While one person might find healing in exposing all through a candid memoir, others simply cannot.  Others will not.  A well-written story will include characters who endure true trials.  They will suffer, triumph, fail or fight as they move from conflict to resolution.  While these struggles merely entertain some readers, they offer a touchtone to others.  They may even help them begin to heal.  In all of us, well-written fiction can create compassion and a sense of common humanity.

Even when reading speculative, science, fantasy and paranormal fiction, I can find truth buried in the hearts of androids, sprites and lycanthropes.  Seeing humanity in the inhuman is only, after all, a metaphor for accepting the differences in mankind.

I’m certainly not the first writer who has ever felt the urge to come to the defense of fiction.  Jane Austen defended the merit of novels, too, even from the beginning of her writing career.  Stepping through the veil of fiction in NORTHANGER ABBEY to make a rather lengthy editorial comment, she said, in part (and with passion):

“There seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them…’Oh! It is only a novel!’ replies the young lady; while she lays down her book with affected indifference, or momentary shame…or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.”

If I still haven’t convinced you that truth can be found in fiction, might I at least offer you a counterpoint about the “true stories” you love?  Again, I turn to Jane Austen:

“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.”