The Fictional Narwhal

I’ve often heard that writers are supposed to be good observers. Having said that I should probably give up my aspirations of being a writer. I like people but I find myself drawn in too easily to operate as an observer. Their stories are often much more interesting than my own. I lose sight of the story and become a character, wondering about the outcome like a subject in my own physical examination. Am I too fat? Will it hurt? Can you prescribe something for my willingness to suspend disbelief? I suppose that the limitations of my memory are to blame. I often get asked how I can read the same book over and over again. The answer is, of course, that I’ve forgotten how it ends. The failing here is that even if I were a good observer I would forget what I had observed and have to make it up.
Here is where we hit on my strengths. If I’ve ever told you a story you should probably know that I likely invented half of it. There are dozens of people out there right now thinking, “That son of a bitch.” So be it. I hate to see a captive audience disappointed, and so, sometimes a new ending or a dramatic twist is needed. I have to disagree with those writers who claim that real life is as interesting as it gets, but I’d have to do too much research to verify that one.
That brings us to another aspect of writing that I have often wondered about. How much research is needed to lie? Well, I suppose if you were writing a drab piece about that technical aspects of water purification you might need to go to the library, but as far as anyone knows that story about the old lady who lives above me is true. The elements of the stories I like to tell usually involve specifics that would take the C.I.A. months to verify. So I am safe. Or am I? How’s that for a plot device? Introduce a little tension. Well, sit right down and let me tell you a story.
A while back (unspecific time) I met a guy (unavailable for comment) who told me (hearsay) that all the elements of good storytelling can be quantified and verified (according to who) if the writer is doing his job (job! you call this work?). I quailed at the idea and began to imagine a tribunal of my peers leering at me from high above as every string of lies I have told were unveiled for the world to see. I was, of course, weeping and descrying my sorrow and contriteness, vowing to never again tell another fib, only to have them laugh and strip me of my license to write. Which was the trigger I needed to snap out of my reverie and think, “I never applied for my license to write!” I’m working under the radar, as it were. Here in the underworld I sit crafting tales of woe and wonder and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Sure its evil, and it certainly doesn’t pay very well, but at long last I feel vindicated and now I’m free to make up all the outlandish stories that I want.
Am I an good observer? Sure. Just don’t ask me too many questions and I’ll try not to tell you too many lies.