As a new adult, I opted to transition into nonfiction writing because I saw it as more commonplace and utilitarian. I was pretty confident the world could find a place for me there. And I am there, sometimes.
But often nowadays, it’s hard to break into the 24/7 news cycle, coupled with so called pundits pontificating their own commentary and opinions. There are often too many aspects to a story to consider. I am not at the frontlines of the Roe v. Wade overturning, nor the Russian invasion of Ukraine, nor Shinzo Abe’s assassination. I don’t often have a lived experience or connection to events like these. I do feel terrible about them, but to make a statement or write an article about such events sometimes feels like preaching to the choir to me. Sometimes there’s a wealth of disaster to dissect. I cannot often pinpoint the one which aggravates me the most. I cannot always suggest solutions.
Fiction is full of allegories and allusions. Public figures, personal acquaintances, and even other fictional characters can come together in fiction. It can propose new ideas and solutions. It’s both escapism and realism, albeit in another plane. For some reason, fiction is where I’ve been getting more ideas lately. Maybe I’m hanging out with Elliott in Stardew Valley too much (although I couldn’t write a novel-length feature like he could; I’m going to start with stuff at a few thousand words before I get to the hundred-thousands).
Maybe it’s the summertime idleness that’s getting to me, but I often can’t talk about life without making a comparison to something that happened to SpongeBob, or what Fran Fine did once, or the way Hamlet manipulated someone, or how Phoebe Buffay got tricked, or how Arthur Read had this great idea…I know, I have a strange combination of fiction that resonates with me in my mundane world.
Point is, nowadays I really see the place fiction has.
Sheila DeBonis: Marketer, Essayist, and Journalist 