Sorting Out Contradictions and Lies: The Playing Field of Essays and Fiction

Like the novel, the essay is a literary device for saying almost everything about almost anything.
Aldous Huxley

Do what you will, this world's a fiction and is made up of contradictions.
William Blake

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
Stephen King


What is the difference between writing fiction and writing essays?

Lourdes Navarro, owner of the Pisti-Totol ~ Black Bird blog, recently asked me this question. At the moment—I was in the midst of a virtual book tour promoting Meet Me under the Ceiba—I had little time to reflect on the answer. As a result, my reply clumsily danced around the issues of conducting research and the outlining process—both of which seem to play a greater role when I write fiction. In the end, I concluded that writing an essay was a less arduous task than writing fiction—an assertion I no longer hold to, for both genres are equally challenging.

Having carefully considered the question for several days now, I’ve discovered that, in my case, the difference between writing fiction and writing essays is far from being subtle, yet bewilderingly so. It is the difference between weightlessness and gravity: between working among the clouds, or with my feet firmly planted on the ground.

The pleasure of writing fiction, at least for me, resides in the license I have to create and inhabit a parallel universe. Since my novels are based on actual events, however, I have to be diligent in trying to replicate the “real world.” That is, as a writer of fiction, my wish is for readers to experience what my characters experience—to see events, circumstances, and the world from their perspective. I write, as the author Julia Alvarez once shared with me about her own fiction, “The truth according to my characters.” Nevertheless, in spite of having the responsibility to keep the narrative within the sphere of the plausible, I am at liberty—as well as obliged, if I am to keep the readers’ interest—to be hyperbolic; and, needless to say, I am most comfortable in the realm of exaggerations.

When I write fiction, I approach the task as if I were writing a fully detailed play or movie script—I want the plot to move as quickly and entertainingly as possible. The broad canvas of the novel, however, a sublimely panoramic scope in which I can lose myself, makes the fictional world more real to me than our world, than the world I am attempting to clone. In interviews and essays, novelists often refer to the intimate bonds they develop with their characters. The words, concerns, feelings, actions, and situations of our creations become our own. And although these beings are the products of our imaginations, we soon begin to see life as they do. Because of this, the act of writing fiction, an act performed in absolute solitude, is far from being a lonely enterprise. Novelists are constantly—in our subconscious minds—in the company of the characters we happen to be writing about: we become obssesively preoccupied with their exaggerations, their dilemmas, and their flaws. This is why, once a full day of writing has reached its conclusion, I often feel as if I am walking on clouds; and it takes large dosages of everyday life—in the form of bills, chores, picking up the car from the mechanic’s, and so forth—to bring me back down to earth.

* * * *

Writing essays, on the other hand, is a grounding experience. By definition, in the essay I am obliged to align my thoughts within the rigid framework of what I hold to be the truth. If I fail to adhere to this principle, to strictest facsimile of reality—be it social, political, artistic, or personal—I would have, as a writer, lost all credibility. The voice of my conscience, which is the part of me that speaks in an essay, would lose all validity—a death knoll for any essayist.

The borderlines of essays, then, with regards to adhering to the precepts of “reality,” are far more restrictive. Yet, in spite of this limitation, the imagination of the writer plays as significant a role as when writing fiction, particularly if we want readers to accompany us on a journey that, for many, may seem to lead into arid terrains when compared to the fanciful flights of fiction. As an indication of the importance a writer’s creativity has in the production of essays: my best ones are those where the conclusions are unforeseen. I then must allow my imagination, coupled with my reasoning, to sort out the inconsistencies of an issue in order to arrive at a resolution that seems the likeliest of truths—and if in the end, as also happens in fiction, the outcome surprises me, then I know that I have a good chance of surprising the reader. And this is a writer’s greatest payoff.

Aldous Huxley was correct in his assertion that fiction and the essay share common ground. In either genre the writer can say virtually everything about almost everything. And in both mediums, we find ourselves straddling contradictions and sorting out lies in an attempt to reach what often end up being surprising and astonishing truths: the truth of the characters, or the truth of a writer’s vision of the world.

Leisure Time and Reading in a Shrinking—Yet Colorful—World

Develop an interest in life as you see it: the people, things, literature, music—the world is so rich, simply throbbing with rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting people. Forget yourself.
Henry Miller


Desocupado lector, . . . .

These are the first words in Don Quixote de la Mancha. They open the Prologue and have been usually translated as “Idle reader.” I believe, however, that the translation that would best capture Miguel de Cervantes’s meaning is: “Reader at leisure, . . . .” Such an interpretation highlights the Spaniard’s genius at maneuvering within the slippery interstices of definitions, a practice that renders him a master in the art of literary ambiguity.

Yet, regardless of the translation, Cervantes’s salutation, as innocuous it may seem on the surface, indicates that the author of the first modern novel was acutely aware that the act of reading, above all other “leisurely” pursuits, involves an infinity of choices—all of them beginning with the books we elect to read.

A worthwhile novel can change the way we see the world. The stories that touch our souls can transform us—and almost always into better persons. I believe this with all of my heart. And because of this alteration to our beings, which also impacts the way we understand and deal with others, reading is a political act.

* * * *

I’ve written this piece at the behest of Eva, at A Striped Armchair, who, in her posting “Reading in Colour,” made a heartfelt call for her fellow readers to be mindful of broadening their cultural and ethnic horizons when selecting novels to read. In her essay, Eva shares that she decided that half of her future readings would be of works by writers of color—that is, authors outside of the realm of white, western-European ancestry. What’s more, she urged other readers in the blogosphere to join her.

Eva’s piece discusses the delicate topic of race relations, as well as the concept of white privilege. These notions elicit heated discussions wherever they arise, and Eva’s words generated over ninety passionate responses (not including Eva’s sublimely diplomatic commentary). Her readers’ viewpoints, although varied, fit into three general categories: 1. those who cheer and support Eva’s stance; 2. those who find her sentiments admirable, but see no need to become selective about an author’s ethnicity as they are drawn to a novel by its quality; and, 3. those who feel that Eva is advocating reverse discrimination.

Regardless of which category the responses fall into, they illustrate that, indeed, reading is an act that can have a profound social impact. As the Peruvian Mario Vargas Llosa once noted in an essay, “La literatura es fuego” (Literature is fire): referring the ability of the written word—even when the aim is artistic—to create impassioned responses and calls to action.

But the question of reading and an author’s ethnicity has long been polemical. Henry Louis Gates, the noted Harvard literature professor—who became front page news in the United States last July when he was arrested while trying to enter his Cambridge, Massachusetts home—has long been an apostle for greater openness toward and inclusion of texts by African-American writers (and by extension all writers of color) in the literary canon. In an essay published in The New York Times Book Review, Gates writes: “Every black American text must confess to a complex ancestry, one high and low (that is, literary and vernacular) but also one white and black. There can be no doubt that white texts inform and influence black texts (and vice versa), so that a thoroughly integrated canon of American literature is not only politically sound, it is intellectually sound as well.”

Taking into account Gates’s position—that of a scholar who has devoted an entire lifetime to contemplating the very issue Eva’s essay brought up—one can see that the problem is extremely complex. What’s more, since discussing the matter falls within the awkward, guilt-ridden, and angering terrain of race relations, the strong reactions become easy to understand. In fact, many African-American scholars who believe that the literature of blacks in the United States merits a separate viewing lens consider Gates’s inclusive stance indefensibly weak.

When debating this problem, then, to arrive at a consensus that pleases every reader is, tragically, impossible. Eva’s call for greater inclusion of writers of color on the reading lists of booklovers sheds some light into the great ethnic chasm that separates people throughout the globe. And, ultimately, the choice to diversify one’s readings may seem a lonely enterprise: in the end each individual is left to follow the dictates of her or his conscience regarding whether the diversification of literature is worthwhile—personally as well as to society.

* * * *

Coincidentally, at the same time the passionate exchanges were taking place at A Striped Armchair, I was a guest at Farm Lane Books Blog as part of a virtual book tour to promote my second novel, Meet Me under the Ceiba. A reader of Eva’s entry visited the site and asked if I, as a writer of color, would be offended if someone chose to read my work solely because of my ethnicity.

I responded that I wouldn’t be offended in the least—and that response still stands.

My answer, in fact, would’ve gone on to state that my ethnicity and my bi-cultural identity as a Nicaraguan-American reside at the heart of my fiction. Upon a brief examination of purchasing habits on Amazon, it’s obvious that most readers who purchase Meet Me under the Ceiba, as well as my first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, are drawn to my fiction precisely because they are interested in reading about Nicaragua—about its people and its history. The passion that fuels my writing resides at the core of my color, of my family’s heritage. (My viewpoint, however, may well be in the minority when compared to other Latino and Latina writers in the United States who would prefer to be considered “American” authors.)

Still, first and foremost, as a writer who has devoted decades to learning the craft, I’m aware, as Cervantes was, that a reader who chooses to spend her or his precious leisure time with one of my novels hopes—and deserves!—to be rewarded with a luminous experience; that is, a reading that will help him or her see the world in a different light. Writers who strive to be taken seriously owe their readers that much, at least.

* * * *

I tell my writing students that to become a good writer one first needs to be a voracious reader. Most writers worthy of our interest have expansive horizons as readers, having traveled far and wide—at least with regard to nationality and ethnicity—to seek the best in the trade. Reading the works of innovative authors, regardless of race, creed, or national origins, is the most effective way for writers to learn. And if we observe the literary world carefully, white authors are often the ones to first call our attention to noteworthy writers of color.

I, for one, do care about the background of every author I read—including his or her ethnicity. That’s because my leisure time is so scarce that I research a novel and its creator prior to deciding whether or not to take the plunge into the depths of their creation. This helps me anticipate the reading experience that awaits me. Moreover, I always say a quick prayer before opening the cover in the hope that at the end of the reading my life will be somewhat transformed.

I don’t keep count of the books I read. But as I prepare to invest my precious leisure time, before I take the leap I look to those who’ve explored the outer fringes before me, like Eva, to serve as my guides.

And as an author from the periphery, I’m deeply indebted to the brave souls who have ventured the world in armchairs. They are agents of inclusion: to paraphrase Henry Miller, they are bold readers who have been able to forget their selves, to move outside of their comfort zones in the pursuit of those rich treasures, beautiful souls and interesting writers who are out there, at present, producing works worthy of our time.



This posting first appeared, in a slightly different version, in A Striped Armchair.

Translating a People

Translation is at best an echo.
George Borrow

A great age of literature is perhaps always a great age of translation.
Ezra Pound



One of the best things that happened to me upon my parents moving back to Nicaragua—when I was eleven years old—was that I ceased being the translator. My mother's English-language skills were limited. Because of this, whenever we'd brave the streets of Los Angeles without my bilingual father, the moment my mother encountered a linguistic puzzle beyond her capacity to solve, she'd gently nudge me before the interlocutor to act as her interpreter. Although I found the experience interesting at first, after a few years stuck at the job, translating became a chore.

Thus, once we moved to her homeland, where she didn't require my services any longer, the freedom was exhilarating.

Yet, ironically, today, as a novelist—and I suspect it's also the case with other Latino and Latina writers—I'm once again fully engaged in a variant of the act of translation.

From the moment I took my first trip to my parents' homeland—at the age of seven—I became acutely aware that Nicaragua and Nicaraguans were a land and a people vastly different from the United States and its populace. I found the landscape of Nicaragua—physical and human—mesmerizing. Nicaraguans were open to an extent I'd never experience, and their joy toward life was contagious. But at the same time there was an underlying sadness—manifested in an acceptance of their lot that to this day I find baffling—brought on by poverty and by centuries of never-ending political turmoil.

During my Nicaraguan adolescence, I grew to adore the country and its people. I gladly shed my American skin and embraced a new identity as a full-fledged Nicaraguan. I fit in perfectly, and loved almost every minute of the seven years I lived in my ancestral homeland.

When I returned to Los Angeles, at age eighteen, to attend college, I soon learned what I wanted to do, more than anything: it was to explain the sights, sounds, tastes, relationships, and experiences I had in Nicaragua to anyone who was willing to listen. Of course, conveying these things over lunch was impossible—I could only produce the distant echo George Borrow spoke of when referring to everything that is lost in translation.

Yet I always knew, instinctively, that the best way to inform Americans about their Nicaraguan brethren—we do share a continent, after all—would be through the written word. The problem was that I had no idea what I needed to do to become a writer. Blindly, I plunged into the study of literature—in Spanish—and eventually earned a doctorate. But that was of little help at the time in bringing the Nicaraguan experience to an American audience.

The turning point, though, was waiting for me right around the corner: I was introduced to US Latino and Latina literature—a literature written primarily in English by authors with backgrounds similar to mine. Their work struck me like a bolt of lightning, and I started to read their production voraciously.

The climax of this odyssey, the moment where a light descended upon my thirsty soul to reveal the key to rendering my love for Nicaragua onto the blank page, came after I read Julia Alvarez's In the Time of the Butterflies. Through that example, as well as others penned by equally talented Latino and Latina writers, I learned how to retrieve stories from my parents' homeland—originally experienced in Spanish—and reinterpret them for an English-language readership.

This is what I did in my first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, and I've done it again in Meet Me under the Ceiba. I lifted events and wrote them in a manner that English-speaking readers can hopefully make their own.

Now the circle feels complete. I am back where I started: translating other people's experiences. Admittedly, it's a different type of translation than what I did for my mother. But it's a kind of interpreting I truly love.



This piece was originally posted in The National Examiner as part of the Meet Me under the Ceiba virtual book tour.