Coming
to Your Senses
Fiction
has to make sense. Life does not, and I suppose it’s just
as well, or vast chunks of life would bounce back from the
Big Editor in the Sky with form rejection slips attached to
them. When we want to praise fiction, we say that it’s true
to life, but it’s not that often the case. Life, unlike
fiction, gives every indication of operating utterly at
random, with no underlying structure, no unifying
principles, no rules of drama. I think it was Chekhov who
pointed out that it was dramatically essential that any
cannon that appeared onstage in Act 1 had damn well better
be fired before the final curtain. Life doesn’t work that
way. In life, onstage cannons are forever silent, while
others never seen go off in the wings, with spectacular
results. Characters play major roles in the opening scenes,
then wander off and are never heard from again. Perhaps it
all balances out, perhaps there’s some sort of cosmic
justice visited in another lifetime or another world, but
all that is hard to prove and not too satisfying
dramatically.
What
I’m really getting at, though, is not so much that life is
a tale told by an idiot as that fiction had better be
otherwise. And, simply because fiction has to make sense,
we take for granted certain things that hardly ever happen
in real life.
Consider
premonitions. Now, everybody has premonitions from time to
time—the sudden illogical hunches that lead us to stay off
an airplane, bet a number, or cross a street. Every once in
a while a premonition actually turns out to be warranted—the
number comes up, the plane comes down, whatever.
But in
the vast majority of instances the premonition is a bum
steer or a false alarm. The warning that came to us in a
dream, and that we did or didn’t act upon, winds up
amounting to nothing at all. The lotter ticket’s a loser.
The plane lands safely.
Not so
in fiction. Every premonition means something, though not
necessarily what it seems to mean; in fiction, we ignore
omens and hunches at our peril, and to our chagrin.
Some
months ago they aired the final episode of Miami Vice,
after a few weeks of preparatory ballyhoo and hype.
Crockett and Tubbs, as portrayed by Don Johnson and Philip
Michael Thomas, are up against a couple of arch-villains,
and if they win you just know a drug-free America is in the
cards for all of us.
Early
on, Tubbs is looking over at Crockett. “I have a feeling
I’m not gonna make it through this one,” he says. Or words
to that effect.
Watching
it, I knew that was the end of Tubbs. Because the poor guy
has a premonition of doom, and we all know what that means.
We know what happens in war movies, after the young
subaltern gives his buddy a letter home “just in case.” We
know what happens in westerns, when they’re circling the
wagons and one character says, “You know, I had a funny
dream last night.” Why should Tubbs be any different? By
the time they rolled the last commercial, the guy was going
to be feeding worms.
Except
that’s not how they did it. When the episode ended, Tubbs
was still on his feet, and there were no more references to
his earlier intimations of mortality. For the first time
ever, as far as I know, a fictional premonition turned out
to be what they so often are in real life—i.e., nothing at
all. And Tubbs didn’t even explain his premonitions away
with a sheepish grin. Like most of us in that sort of
situation, he probably didn’t want to think about it, let
alone discuss it. The subject very likely embarrassed the
man.
I have
no idea how the producers managed to put such revolutionary
material on the air. I don’t think they were trying to
break new ground artistically, and suspect one of two
things happened. Perhaps they wanted to heighten tension by
making you certain Tubbs was going to buy the farm. (“But
that’s cheating! If he has a premonition, he has to die at
the end.” “So what are they gonna do, sue us? It’s the last
episode. If they get mad, let ‘em turn the set off.”) Or,
just as plausibly, Tubbs was destined to die in an earlier
draft; after the decision has been made to save him, nobody
bothered to excise the premonition. You can decide for
yourself whether they were cynical or sloppy.
Writing
in the Future Tense
In
much the same fashion, fictional fortunetellers are always
on the mark. Whatever their mode of divination, tea leaves
or tarot cards, astrology or phrenology or foot
reflexology, their predictions always come true. There may
be a catch, as Macbeth discovered when Birnam Wood came
marching toward Dunsinane, but such ironic twists of fate
don’t lay a glove on the basic assumption—i.e., that all predictions
are accurate.
We’ll
I’ve had my chart done a couple of times, and my palm read,
and my psychic temperature taken on various occasions. A
friend of mine is a rather brilliant psychic, and some of
the things she comes up with are uncanny, but she’s nowhere
near as accurate as any storefront gypsy palmist ever met
with in fiction.
In
Life As We Know It, most fortunetellers are wrong most of
the time. The more specific they get, the less accurate
they seem to be. Whether they’re forecasting the end of the
world or a romantic interlude with a tall dark stranger,
you wouldn’t want to be the rent money on what they tell
you.
Just
look at the supermarket tabloids. They usually run
extensive predictions around the first of the year, with
famous psychics telling us what to expect over the next 12
months. Except for the can’t-miss shotgun predictions (“I
foresee that somewhere in the world there will be a
disaster, with great loss of life. Washington will be
rocked with charges of political corruption and financial
mismanagement. And, on the Hollywood scene, I see a
marriage breaking up.” No kidding.), the predictors hardly
ever get anything right.
In
fiction, they almost always get almost everything right,
and it never occurs to us to regard this as unrealistic. On
the contrary, we’d be annoyed if it happened otherwise, as
I was half-annoyed when Philip Michael Thomas survived on Miami Vice.
We’d feel that we had prepared ourselves for a certain
eventuality and that our preparations had been wasted.
Because we’ve come to know that all predictions and
premonitions come true in fiction, we took them for
foreshadowing and braced ourselves for their fulfillment.
“Oh,
this is silly,” a character says. “I’m not superstitious.
I’m going to walk under this ladder.” Or break this mirror,
or forbear to throw this spilled salt over my should, or
whatever. And he does, and we know something’s going to
happen to him before his story’s over. We may not be
superstitious ourselves. We may detour around ladders, just
on the general principle that it couldn’t hurt, but we
don’t take the whole thing seriously.
Not in
real life we don’t. In fiction, we know better.
Making
Sense of It All
And
what does all this mean?
I’m
tempted to say that this column must be true to life, in
that things aren’t going to be all worked out at the end,
with everything neat and logical. Because I’m not sure just
what it all means, or precisely what implications it has
for us as writers of fiction. It could probably be argued
that one of the reasons fiction exists, a reason it is
written and a reason it is read, is that it is orderly and
logical, that it makes sense in a way that life does not.
Frustrated with the apparent random nature of the universe,
we take refuge in a made-up world in which actions have
consequences.
Truth,
as we’ve been told enough, is stranger than fiction. Of
course it is—because it can get away with it. It flat-out
happens, and it’s undeniable, so it doesn’t have to make
sense. If my friend’s story, replete with uxoricide and
transvestism and the remarriage and the beating of the new
wife and the trial and the death, if all of that were
placed without apology between book covers and presented as
fiction, I’m sure I’d have tossed the book aside
unfinished; if I made it all the way through, I’d surely be
infuriated by the virus
ex machina ending. The loose ends would annoy
me and the inconsistencies would drive me nuts.
But
it’s fact. It happened. I can’t dispute it on dramatic
grounds. I can’t say it’s improbable, or illogical. It
happened. It’s what is. I may not like it, I may be
saddened or horrified by it, but I can’t lay the book aside
because it’s not a book. It’s real.
I’ve
seen writers react to criticism that their stories were
implausible, that they relied too greatly on coincidence,
that they were unresolved dramatically, by arguing that
their fiction had been faithful to actual circumstance.
“How can you say that?” they demand. “That’s how it
happened in real life! That’s exactly how it happened!”
Indeed,
and that’s the trouble. If real life were fiction, you
couldn’t get the damn thing published.
Lawrence
Block, like life, doesn’t have to make sense. But
he always manages to anyway.
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