For fiction to work, it has to balance a certain amount of realism with the fictional. A shared experience between the writer and reader is needed to make sense of the invented. Too much of the latter, and the text becomes gibberish; too much of the mundane, and the spark goes out.
Most published writers manage it well, but now and then you find a detail that practically smacks you in the face with suspension of disbelief, but not necessarily through any fault of the author.
Take this section of a sci-fi novel, for instance:
“Everyone remembered firsts. Your first love, first kiss, the birth of your first child, or the sight of your first snowfall. A life was built on the back of firsts. Shining moments, pins in the timeline, holding who you were together.”
–Acaelus Mercator in The Blighted Stars by Megan E. O’Keefe
I have to confess that the first snowfall had me laughing out loud, and long and heartily, too! Not because it’s an unreasonable first to remember per se. (I gather there are a lot of people for whom it was indeed a remarkable moment to witness!) I laughed because this is a case of inadvertent but nevertheless a complete and a total case of nooope.
My first snow would be extremely unlikely for me to remember, having grown up two hours south of the Arctic Circle. As unusual as remembering your first rain for the Irish, maybe, or your first mountain for someone who grew up in the Rockies.
Sometimes, despite your best efforts, your audience just completely bounces off your writing. And that’s fine, because at best it’s how we discover the remarkable in our everyday.
O’Keefe, Megan E. The Blighted Stars. London: Orbit, 2023, p. 180.
Image by Eppu Jensen
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