When life becomes fiction and fiction life…

is the

inside the RestauranteLife and fiction are rarely hard and fast boundaries; far from being readily demarcated they blur into one another, are subjective and slippery. In Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Sancho desperately tries to make it otherwise, not by keeping these two ‘categories’ apart, but by trying to make fact and story congruent – for him a story has to be ‘true’ or ‘authentic’; a story has to be told in a certain way and it has to not invite trouble –

…the ancients didn’t begin their stories just as they pleased … your worship must stay quiet and not go anywhere seeking harm, … turn up some other road, since nobody is making us follow this one, where there are so many terrors to frighten us.

Quixote will have none of this. Seeking truth (rather than fact) and justice makes him live ‘as if’ these things were already the way of the world, an extreme utopian vision that changes reality through perspective, but inevitably leads to conflict – the windmills are, after all, giants (corporations, media, war-machines…) bent on destroying what is humane and hopeful and visionary. But while the fearless imagination belongs to Quixote, it is Sancho who lives in this interior, quixotic world. Sancho is not only loyal, but an enabler. Despite constantly struggling to understand the difference between fantasy and reality, he believes in Quixote, and enters into Quixote’s inner world so fully that he supports its continued existence, making it so.

These are areas that fascinate me –

how fact and fiction constantly collide and interweave;

how one person becomes so immersed in the fantasy life of another so as to enable and support it…

Children do this with great fluency – using make believe to build abstract thought, to imbue the world with symbolic meaning – but somewhere along the line most of us ‘grow out’ of it. Most, but not all – and in This is the End of the Story I wanted to explore the kind of enabling that requires immersion in another’s fantasy (a quixotic, visionary fantasy that is determined to act as if there is justice in the world) and I wanted to explore how this changes the enabler – the effects of the stories we tell ourselves or allow others to tell about us.

And so – belief is Cassie’s gift. Growing up in 1970s Teesside, Catherine Anne McManus, a clever, but naïve teenager from a dysfunctional home, believes herself to be whoever others tell her she is — Cassie, Kat, Kitty, or even, at the insistence of her quixotic friend, Miriam, Casilda – an 11th century Muslim princess who later became a saint, a ‘real’ person whose story is shrouded in myths and romantic legend.

Cassie and Miriam are united by Miriam’s extraordinary internal world and Cassie’s belief, despite Cassie’s frequent pleas that Miriam should avoid trouble and choose another road, and despite a traumatic incident on a beach in Scotland. Miriam, however, constantly predicts that Cassie will betray her and persistently tests Cassie’s loyalty – including using her epilepsy as a tool to manipulate Cassie. No major plot spoilers – but Miriam is not blessed with belief and when an act of betrayal so small, but so profound propels Cassie towards Liam, someone also eager to tell Cassie who she really is, then it may be the end of the story. Or is it? Cassie may be more resourceful than either Miriam or Liam imagines and even when she eventually visits Toledo in the footsteps of Casilda, is this the end of the story?

This is the End of the Story, is of course, completely made up – at the same time it’s the kind of narrative pretence in which life and fiction is irrevocably blurred. Once upon a time in Teesside I had an extraordinary relationship that the fiction resonates with. I could list a thousand ways in which the characters are purely fictions; a thousand ways in which x or y didn’t happen in the way the novel describes or ever happen at all – that would be true, but under that truth is a more complex one – one that fascinates me still because who can say for certainty where the story and the fact reside? I tried to reflect on that conundrum within the narrative by having Cassie revise the story of her coming of age in later life, only to make it more tangled than ever.

I also wanted the sense that Cassie, as she becomes less naïve, takes on Miriam’s quixotic legacy. In Don Quixote, the truth that is discovered in dreams is powerful; and in the second novel Cassie, now Catherine, begins to live someone else’s life in her dreams, but that’s another story, which begs the question – is this the end of the story?

Leave a comment

January 6, 2017 · 11:03 pm

Leave a Reply