The Lie That Tells the Truth

I came to the art of writing by lying. My mother always emphasized the necessity of telling the truth, and when I was a small boy, she convinced me if I lied to her, my mother would be able to see the lie on my forehead. The first time I lied to her and got away with it — not by any means the first time I had lied, nor the last — I was delighted, convinced that the inside of my skull was sacrosanct. My mind was finally private and not available to anyone else.

At the same time I recognized that meant I couldn’t tell whether she, or anyone else was lying to me. Other people’s thoughts and feelings were being denied to me, as mine were not available to others if and when I might want them to be. It was a stunning insight: The head might be a refuge, a sanctuary, a haven, but also a prison.

Writing introduces you into the lies and truths of other people’s minds and hearts. Writing takes you across country and time, or to strange, foreign places and eras. Writing ventures into the most public forums and the most private scenes of human intimacy, capturing our private lives and public moments. It can make you see, hear, feel, love, hate, forgive, judge, understand, and yet not be bound by the consequences of all those activities. Though you are a participant-observer in the most personal and informed ways.