BOOKISH: Fiction and The Law

The first page of every novel has the same disclaimer.

All characters and events are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidence, and the author…

Blah blah. Why do they still print this? Why was it ever done? We know it’s a lie. What a way for the great truth tellers of history, our novelists, to start a book. Of course all characters are based on real people. Of course the events took place, or very nearly did. Otherwise we wouldn’t believe a word.

It’s all because of lawyers. Lawyers don’t trust anyone. They literally see dishonesty in everyone they meet. Especially other lawyers. Which makes you wonder about your own lawyer. To be safe, lawyers want a published book to have this standard disclaimer. Or standard lie, if you will.

All characters and events are purely fictitious. Any resemblance…

Whatever. Lawyers are afraid. Publishers are afraid. Even writers, whose job is to face the facts whatever they might be, courageously, honestly, are afraid. There’s a lot of fear in publishing. Almost everyone, in one way or another, is afraid. You know who’s not afraid?

Me.

Am I weird? Maybe. But I’ve had enough. I’ve lived too long, and seen too much, and been exposed to too many jerks to be afraid, as I sit here doing the one thing that makes sense, the only worthwhile use of my life, to write anything but the truth.

I don’t publish lies.

So am I going to get myself in trouble? Nah. First of all, fiction requires that we enhance and expand any event. An actual account of what happened, told in a straightforward narrative, is pretty boring. In real life, people are pretty boring. This is why dialog must never be a direct transcription. There’s so many ahs and ums and misdirection and restarts, that literal speech is worthless.

The world doesn’t make sense. That’s why we have political arguments: No one sees anything the same. But if you write a novel, this can’t happen. Everyone has to see everything the same. Or about a hundred thousand of them. You want to sell books, don’t you? And there’s no time to goof around with windy explanations. Not in a novel which, at seventy-thousand words, is a lightning depiction of a whole world. A world that has to make sense.

So you speed things up. Events get blended. Des Moines becomes Chicago. 1996 becomes 2020. The jerk of a boss isn’t just sloppy and stupid; he’s got mustard on his tie. The beautiful Human Resource Director isn’t just beautiful; she’s so alluring she turns men into swine. And has mustard on her tie. Or blouse, if you will.

It’s all a lie. Am I contradicting myself? Hardly. Fiction is emotional truth. Universal truth. Most real family truths are true only for those real families. The truths in real families hardly apply to anyone else. But in fictional families the truths seem so universal you start to think the author spied on your own family. You’re tempted to call your elderly mother and accuse her of subverting your dream of becoming a ballet dancer. Don’t.

Finally, an novelist is an artist. By definition the artist is irresponsible. They cannot be held liable for their irresponsibility. That’s why artists become artists. Well, some of us.

All characters and events are purely fictitious. Any resemblance…

Maybe this just makes everyone feel good. “This depiction is so real you’ll want to sue me.” That’s a good first line in any book. Speaking of lawsuits, when’s the last time a novelist was sued for libel? Ever. Admit it, you’ve never heard of such a thing.

I rest my case.