Ursula Le Guin referred to works of fiction as thought experiments. Her concept fits my attempts to tell stories. Le Guin also suggested that all fiction is metaphorical. It seems to me science fiction is often an allegory about “real life,” whatever that is. Much like geometric proof, science fiction postulates possible outcomes, based on given conditions. We can imagine what might or might not happen, given the premise of the story and the world as we understand it.
I follow a Bible scholar who has pointed out that whether we admit it or not, we all “negotiate” with the text, in terms of our experience and the author’s word choices. There is perhaps no such thing as a “definitive” interpretation of the past, much less a clear prediction of the future, or even an accurate description of the present. If we want to understand the meaning of a story, we must read between the lines, imagine ourselves as part of the story, and give the storyteller the benefit of our doubts.
The stories I write often have a moral point. Certain questions are woven into the fabric of the story, such as, “just because we can do a thing, should we?” Or “this is what might happen if…” Yet, in some sense, every story is fictional. Life is full of metaphors. Everything seems to point to something else. Everything we know, claim to know, or simply believe is fiction. However, fiction is not necessarily a lie. We tell ourselves stories to make sense of reality because stories are easier to comprehend than the full complexity of life.
As I write this, billions of events are taking place on the surface of the 8000-mile sphere we call home. And there are trillions of other spheres. Who, other than The Almighty, can keep track of it all? So, we tell stories to piece together the fragments of our experience. And we hope our tales will somehow generalize enough to become part of the experience of others.
We all want our favorite stories to be true, to represent “the way things really are.” But often our stories about history, religion, and society don’t agree. And it seems to me there are always new stories forming around the edges of the old. For every tragedy, there is a story of resilience. For every cautionary tale, there is a story of resistance or redemption. For every story of conflict there is a story of resolution. Or so I hope. Part of the reason I write is to hang on to hope. I don’t think anyone who writes stories wants things to get worse. Mary Shelly wrote her foundational science fiction story with the hope that some might heed her warnings. Many writers have tried to point to something higher or nobler rather than suggest life is all for nought.
Nevertheless, some stories take on a life of their own, as though nothing matters but the story. These stories can become monsters, compelling people to believe them, even when there is something more worthwhile to believe. These stories can run wild and hurt people. Not even the original storytellers can stop their rampage. Even when one of these monsters is shown to be dangerous, some of its followers will still cling to it, regardless of logic or evidence, or even the storyteller’s change of heart. A monster only cares about winning, not what is true or good.
I want my stories to stand in defiance of monsters. I realize all stories contain elements of truth and falsehood because we live in a world of contradictions and uncertainty. Like mathematical models, all stories are wrong – but some are useful. Some point to truth and goodness, while others do not. Even so, we must take care not to believe our stories are true while their stories are false. Honestly exploring the similarities and differences between stories can help us discover what is useful.
According to an old children’s song, life is but a dream.
It seems to me only a rational, self-aware, compassionate person is fit to interpret the dream. I hope to be such a person.
MurrayWorks 