Story and Reality: Fact vs. Fiction?

In a previous blog Ben and I discussed whether or not stories constitute escapism, or instead symbolize a deeper, truer form of reality that usually remains just beyond the skin of this world. If stories symbolize a reality hidden by the mundane of our present reality, does it then follow that when we create a story, we are directly impacting reality? In other words, is it possible for fiction to become more factual than what we call 'reality'?

Consider, for example, certain stories in which what is written directly impacts the 'real' world. Ted Dekker's Showdown comes to mind. But what about less obvious ones? Hearts in Atlantis shines forth as a brilliant example, not for its overt treatment of story, per se, but rather for the indelible impact that a seeming fiction has on the characters--and, by extension, the viewers.

This multifaceted story effortlessly draws viewers into the innocence and intrigues of the life of eleven-year old Bobby Garfield, a sensitive boy raised by his single mother. A mysterious but kind-hearted middle-aged man (played by the spectacular Anthony Hopkins) moves in upstairs as a boarder to generate extra income for Bobby's mother, who seems at once incapable of paying her bills and yet extraordinarily lavish when buying clothing for herself.

Bobby befriends their paying guest, Ted, and soon learns a terrible secret: Ted is on the run from shadowy figures known as the 'low men.' Offered a chance to earn money by performing two simple tasks--reading the newspaper aloud to Ted, who is losing his vision, and keeping a watchful eye for 'low men'--Bobby begins a summer-long adventure filled with love and loss.

Viewers are kept guessing through much of the film as to whether or not the 'low men' exist. I don't want to ruin this touching film for those who haven't watched the film yet, and so I will leave their existence up to your imagination. But for the purposes of this blog, the important part is to realize that Bobby acts as though they exist, even when he doesn't believe that they truly do. His willingness to ascribe credence to their existence is enough to affect everything that he does--and sparked a series of questions in my own mind.

If we believe that something is true then we generally act on it. So in what ways do stories insert truth into our lives such that we act on those truths? Are these story-truths generally positive, as is the case in Hearts in Atlantis or Pan's Labyrinth, or do they take on a more sinister form? Like Leonard Shelby in Memento, do we lie to ourselves in order to be happy?

Ultimately the concept of story-truth lists heavily into the domain of postmodernism and theories of linguistical construction of reality--issues which Christians usually avoid, or at least discuss with great caution and unease. Yet perhaps postmodernism is not really a product of the postmodern era; perhaps it has got a few things right, and these things have existed in eternity.

Has not God told the greatest story of all time? And His story is not fiction, but fact. Indeed, our faith is built on the certainty of this fact--if Christ is not raised from the dead then we are to be pitied above all men. And are we not His workmanship? You and I are characters in His story, caught up in a majestic fifth act, as N.T. Wright might put it (yes, Ben, that line was for you).

But it is not my intent to wax eloquent about theology in this particular blog. Rather, I want to look not at the validity of the claim--which I feel is sufficiently self-evident to gloss over--but at the implications and applications of such a view of story and its power and authority within the matrix of everyday reality.

Suppose that I one day have the blessed fortune to marry and have children. While raising them, imagine that I tell them all manner of stories. Unlike simple bed-time tales, these stories have the air of truth about them because they are firmly entrenched in reality. As I relate them to the children and speak of danger and excitement, adventure and intrigue, they find themselves wondering how they can participate in the story--and I make the story spring to life by giving them quests (reminiscent of Pan's Labyrinth), recruiting friends and neighbors as the dramatis personae of the tales, and entering into the world of story such that it fuses with reality.

This provides for endless hours of fun, adventure, creativity, imagination, learning, and the opportunity to put into practice the principles that I have taught them. They enter adulthood confident, poised, more than ready to deal with any number of obstacles and adversaries; they have already found themselves in the proving grounds of the imagination.

This begs the question: Am I guilty of promoting untruth, or have I simply allowed the unreal and ethereal to incorporate?

Do not mistake me. I am not condoning lying to children; some fiction ought to be left out of the storybook (Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny come to mind). But this is no surprise! Indeed, it ought to be the case if story and reality are to fuse. After all, story is art. Why are we surprised that bad art exists here as well? All artforms are plagued by bad art to one degree or another. This is no different.

For far too long the notion that unreal must mean not real has obscured the truth. Let's be bold enough to erase the unhealthy dichotomy between fact and fiction-- with care, of course, because boundaries do and indeed should exist--and let the unfettered imagination run wild.



Grace and peace,
Andrew <><