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Fact and Fiction
C-Squared was the long-time boyfriend (later the husband) of one of my roommates in graduate school. It was through him that I met my first husband, and the initial attraction, I'm not ashamed to say, was that the two of them—C—Squared and my future ex-husband—had a parlor trick of whistling Sousa's "American Patrol" in perfect two-part harmony. To me, with only a rudimentary squeak of a whistle, this was a miraculous feat.
A few things about C-Squared have stuck in my mind over the sixty-odd years that have passed since we knew each other. Because he was an engineer, when he made a rough measurement of any sort he would say he had a "calibrated eyeball". I still use the term with delight when I correctly calculate the jar size I need to store some leftover soup.
The other thing I remember is this: C-Squared's parents died when he was just an infant and he was lovingly raised by an uncle and aunt who had no children of their own. There was a simple, secret reason for their childlessness. On their wedding night (this was years before C-Squared arrived on their doorstep), the uncle transmitted a venereal disease to the aunt, who was so shocked and disgusted by this that she banned her husband from her bed for the rest of their lives.
Now, the really odd thing about this intimate story is that I should have learned of it and should have remembered it for over sixty years. What an intimate situation in someone else's married life for me—a total stranger—to be aware of.
A writer of fiction—a real writer, as I might put it—would turn this sad story into a powerful work of art, disguising it so cleverly that no one would recognize its origins.
I am not capable of going beyond simply stating the facts of the story. Another writer might melt this golden nugget and—with refining and much heat—form it into art: a golden necklace, a ring, an admirable object. But there's something in me (perhaps lack of talent?) that actually prefers the raw nugget and resists refining someone's story into entertainment for a wider audience.
Many writers rely on others' stories. I have heard the tale of a widely known woman storyteller who sourced her fiction solely from the lives of her neighbours. And one day an irate husband showed up at her front door brandishing a shotgun because his own wife's story had just been published in a book for all the world to read. With names changed, of course, of course. But he knew whose story it was. It was his and his wife's. It was not the author's.
That skirmish ended (the shotgun was not discharged) and the author continued to base her stories on the real lives of others.
So that's one kind of author. Other kinds might claim that every story they write comes solely from their imagination. Which might be true.
As for me, I'll hang on to my little raw nuggets of gold and parcel them out at will, unrefined and unadorned, when I'm at a great distance, in time and geography, from the source.
Copyright (c) 2025 Ann Tudor
