Recipe for Truth-Infused Fictioncakes

So this week I’m taking part in a TRUTH vs. FICTION BLOG HOP hosted by fellow writer Christian Frey. I thought the topic was really interesting—does more truth equal better fiction? How can writers get the balance right?

I don’t think there are easy or right answers, but I wanted to share what works for me.

See below for my recipe for Truth-Infused Fictioncakes (full disclosure: I have the stomach flu right now, so just typing the word “cakes” is causing me considerable distress). Be sure to stop by Christian Frey’s blog for a new post by a different author every day this week. To see a list of participating authors, their posts, and the Twitter conversation that sparked it all, visit the Truth vs. Fiction page on Christian Frey’s blog.

On with the recipe!

YOU WILL NEED:

One 5-lb bag of truth. This is the core of the recipe; there are lots of ways to make it, but here’s what I use:

1 1/2 cups of What Really Happened, shelled and unwashed

5 whole cloves of courage (the strongest kind you can find)

1 can of trusted reviewers’ comments (I like them non-acidic and lightly minced)

4 heaping cups of your own instinct

One 10-lb sack of fiction. This provides spice, unique flavor, and dramatic structure.

5 cups of your imagination, ripe and peeled

1 ½ cans of poetic license, measured carefully

1 bag of assorted inspirations from your favorite authors, actors, artists, etc., finely chopped and blended

Directions:

Open up your bag of Truth and carefully unwrap some high-quality What Really Happened. You can use your own or borrow some from a friend or acquaintance, but make sure it’s strong and flavorful enough to provide a solid base for your Fictioncakes. Before you unwrap the What Really Happened, you might have to unpeel a few cloves of courage and inhale deeply, because What Really Happened is often heavy and hard to work with and can make you cry while you’re chopping it.

(NOTE: Some people argue that there’s no such thing as 100% pure What Really Happened, because as soon as you put your own hands on it and start working it over, it starts smelling like fiction. I leave the WHAT IS TRUTH ANYWAY discussion to more philosophical bakers and those with the munchies. For the purposes of this recipe, let’s assume there’s still some basic difference between historical/personal events that perceptibly occurred [i.e., I left my Fictioncakes in the oven too long and set my house on fire] and those that did not [a sympathetic centaur then appeared and spirited me off].)

Anyway, go ahead and mix the What Really Happened with the cloves of courage, kneading the mixture gently. It’ll be pretty blobby and shapeless, so rip open your sack of Fiction right away and start folding in your own imagination, sprinkling in liberal amounts of poetic license.

This is where it gets tricky.

I’ve made this recipe over and over, and it still takes a lot of seat-of-your-pants tinkering to get it right. If a character’s motivations don’t seem natural or dialogue tastes a little stale, rummage deep in the bag and scrape out some more Truth. (If you don’t have the right flavor handy, you might have to do some research or talk to someone in the know. Stick your batter in the fridge; it’ll keep.) If your pacing is leaden because you’re sticking in way too much What Really Happened, take some of it out and toss in some spicier Fiction. There’s no foolproof recipe, which kinda sucks and also kinda rules. The ingredients always interact in unexpected ways, so just keep tasting and tweaking to get the Truth/Fiction ratio right. If you’re not sure when to add what, be patient with yourself, take lots of time to study how others do it, and have fun experimenting until you’re happy.

Sometimes when you’re making this recipe, you’ll feel stuck—you might start thinking this whole thing is lumpen and flavorless and why do I bother and let me just unwrap one of the Ho-Hos in my freezer instead. That’s why I like to stir in a big bag of outside inspirations. Chill your batter for a while and go recharge while you collect some. Watch an actor you’re crushing on; notice the way she walks, the way she touches her nose when she’s telling a lie. Read an author you love and absorb how he uses commas, how he paces a fight scene, how he balances dialogue and description.  Look at a book of photographs that excite you, watch the tense dynamic between two characters in your favorite film. It’ll add extra texture and zing to your own Fictioncakes. I chop my inspirations up very finely—you don’t want the chunks to be big and recognizable—and I sift them through my own sieve and blend them gradually into the batter.

When you’ve seasoned and worked with the batter to your initial satisfaction, close it up and let it sit in a cool dark place for a while. Then when you’ve got some distance, tear open your Truth bag again and measure in heaping cupfuls of your strongest editorial instinct, which is probably not as hard and unripe as you think it is. Then collect feedback from readers you trust—as few or as many as you want—and start working in the suggestions that smell the freshest and don’t make a hollow sound when you thump them. Trust yourself to know the difference. Don’t make changes that don’t feel like you. Fictioncakes baked by committee always taste pale and weird.

IMPORTANT: This is one of those recipes that everyone makes differently, and that’s totally okay. Some people start with more What Really Happened (even mixing in teaspoons of their own blood); others rely on the contents of their Fiction sack and use What Really Happened as a delicate flavoring. I’ve had delicious Truth-Infused Fictioncakes served by authors who triple the amount of reviewer feedback, seeking out the pungent and unvarnished kind and folding them in very early in the process. That can work great. I personally need to tell myself numerous pretty lies to stay motivated and finish, and I’ve found that too much truth too early in the process makes me question the entire recipe and want to heave the whole bad batch down the garbage disposal. That’s okay too. Be wary of anyone who hands you a Truth-Infused Fictioncakes recipe, tells you this is the One Right Way to make them, and casts judgment on your process.  Anything goes, as long as it keeps you going and leaves you with a good final product.

Okay, now go ahead: stick it in the oven. Bake for six months to three freaking years. Cover it with a beautiful cover and serve hot. Serves hundreds to thousands of readers, depending on which platter you choose, whether you get a table at the bake sale, and how many people your unique flavor appeals to. Acknowledge you are awesome for working your ass off and finishing. ENJOY.

And save me one, okay? I can’t wait to try yours.