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With everyone so worked up about rumors of fake news, I’m glad I’m not a news writer. But yesterday, I more or less got accused of writing fake fiction. I was telling people about my book, Night and Day, and that it was loosely based on the story of why my great-great grandparents emigrated from Denmark.
I told them the reputed true part of the story (my great, great grandma was a very beautiful woman, who my great, great grandfather brought to America to get away from another man who was in love with her). I then said that the rest of the book was a product of my wild imagination – one possible explanation of what might have happened in Denmark all those decades ago.
I went on to describe Golden Rod, my most recent release, including the legends and castles that inspired the book. And then I mentioned ghosts.
“So this book isn’t true,” said one of the ladies.
“None of them are true,” I said. “They’re fiction.”
“But if there are ghosts, Golden Rod can’t be based on a true story.”
“But it is,” I said. “We toured a castle in Scotland that has been under a curse for over 500 years. A traveling minister offered to bless the castle, and when his offer was rejected because the owners preferred to wait for the priest, he cursed the castle, promising that no eldest son would ever inherit. In all these years, none has.”
“But if there are ghosts in the story…”
“Fictional ghosts. All of my novels are fiction.” I told them about a second castle we toured, and the legend of a woman who fell from a fourth story window, and the upside down writing carved into the castle wall, 3 ½ stories up where no one but a ghost could reach. “It’s fiction based on a true story,” I tried to explain. “Just like Night and Day. And another of my books, Blue Belle, which was inspired by the tale of a Spanish galleon that went down in Tobermory Bay in 1588, fully loaded with gold that has never been recovered.”
“But if it happened that long ago, no one knows what really happened.”
“Right. That’s why it’s fiction.”
Perhaps the real truth is that there’s a nugget of something that really happened in all my books – or very probably happened – or at least, very probably happened in some similar form, or in a slightly different way, or in a different time.
The truth – altered just enough to protect the not so innocent, which in some cases might be me, and to throw family members, acquaintances, and any others who might judge me off the scent. The truth – transformed just enough to convince the reader that this is a work of fiction, that the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination and not, under any circumstances, to be construed as real.
Because the truth is, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. They’re all fiction, people. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I write fiction. Still, everything that filters through my brain is based on the reality of my life, my experiences, and my beliefs. I’m a complex person, and so are my books. Real life occurrences inspire fictional stories. Imaginary tales spring from a nugget of truth, either learned or observed.
Fake fiction? You be the judge.
SHY VIOLET BY SHERRIE HANSEN… Coming May 1, 2015…
Violet looked at Nathan, asleep in his cold, sterile, hospital bed, and something inside her just snapped. What was she doing? Fighting in front of Nathan at a time like this, when venom and vinegar were the absolute last things on her mind and love was all that mattered.
She shrunk back against the wall. Because violets are beautiful, but they have fragile, thin-skinned petals and short little stems and they can only survive in sheltered, shady spots in the forest. They’re not made to weather fierce storms or a powerful sun. And if someone steps on them and tramples then into the ground, that’s probably where they’ll stay – crushed for all eternity.
“Violet?” Lyndsie knew her well enough to know that something was wrong.
Violet opened her mouth and tried to find the words to express what she was feeling. And failed. Who did she think she was, anyway? Sure, she could stand up to Stacy for – what had it been? Like two minutes? The mouse looking the lion in the eye for a nanosecond before scampering away, fearful for its life.
Nathan had known Stacy for years. He’d loved her enough to ask her to marry him. He may have realized it was a mistake to proceed with the marriage, but they had a history – a long, deep, trusting, evolving relationship. He and Violet had shared a couple of weeks of wild lovemaking and a handful of heart-to-hearts. That was it.
Nathan might think he loved her – who really knew? They certainly didn’t have the all-important communication thing down or he would have known she hadn’t been kidnapped and they wouldn’t be in the mess they were in. Even if Nathan did love her on some level, he didn’t trust her. Lyndsie had told her Nathan believed she had taken a $10,000 bribe from his father and left drugs in his apartment, then tipped off the police to get him in trouble.
There was no way she could go head to head with Stacy over Nathan. She didn’t have the courage. She didn’t have the resolve. She didn’t have the guts. She didn’t have the right.
Stacy gave her a look – a mere look – and she could feel what little bravado she had left withering like a shade-loving wildflower in a hot desert sun. Impossible.
From Shy Violet by Sherrie Hansen