Whenever I ask the question “How shall I live?” I always look to literature for the answer. But this time the answer came in a dream.
The dream took place in an auditorium, an old one, like the Century movie theaters in San José: a huge domed room, with plush maroon carpet that matched the seats. Some of the seats held members of my writing group. We were there because our fellow member Anthony Francis was going to read an excerpt from his novel, and I was supposed to introduce him.
I was standing on a wooden stage, behind a podium. This was a writing conference, titled The Real Life of Fiction.
I had notes, but they didn’t help. I babbled. I forgot the title of the novel. I forgot the name of the conference. At one point, through the haze of my stammering incompetence, I saw clearly for a moment: in the front row, a woman with the curly hair and Coke-bottle glasses that could only belong to one of my favorite authors: Oh no, I thought, not only am I messing up, but Connie Willis is seeing it.
The microphone was from the 1930s. Its metallic workings distorted my voice. The audience stared at me. Connie Willis’s glasses stared at me. I kept talking, even though I had forgotten the name of the conference and the title of the novel. Then I remembered to say that Anthony writes like the cinema.
I tried to explain what that meant, and my words made no sense. But I realized that since Anthony was about to read from his novel, I didn’t have to explain. I said, “You’ll see in a minute anyway. I don’t have to tell you.” I stepped down as Anthony stood up. I walked toward the seats as he made his way to the podium, a twin copy of the novel in his hand. He smiled and thanked me as we passed.
I’d done a terrible job, but I was happy, because it was the best I could do.
I’d babbled and stammered, but I’d said what mattered: that the conference was important, and that Anthony writes like the cinema. And that we work together in our writing group. After I sat down, I remembered I was supposed to have said more about the writing group, that someone had told me I should use this opportunity to advertise it. Oh well, I thought, next time.
What is “the real life of fiction”? Here is my answer: I am not content to read fiction or even to write it. I will not be satisfied unless I live it. I want my life to be a story, which means I have to transcend myself and do what matters in the critical moment.
But there is no shortcut, and sometimes you can’t do what maybe you should do, or what you see other people can do. At my writing group, I see Betsy just do things she thinks might work, like run a crowdfunding campaign; I see David just write novel after novel as though he has every right to do it. I even see myself posting videos that I hope no one will watch, but that a year ago I wouldn’t have even dared to record. Sometimes your skills aren’t where you wish they were, sometimes you don’t know the story you’re living, but that is not an excuse to avoid action.
You have to do what you can, because that is the only way ever to be able to do something that matters. The videos I make next year will be better, but only if I make these videos now.
There is a connection here to literature, to mythology, to Orpheus and Odysseus and Leopold Bloom, because we are all just trying to do something that matters, and we can’t do it most of the time. But still, sometimes we can, and that’s the part that all the other times are for. That’s the part that makes our life a story.
What is the real life of fiction? It’s the real life of the times when we can. It’s the times when we can’t, all condensed into a single scene; it’s the maroon carpet seats in the dome theater and the echo of an old microphone. It’s everything you do so that you can do the one thing that matters; it’s the one thing shining and then passing away.
Do what you can, and do it now. The real life of fiction is the real life of real life.
“”An essay from Your Writing Matters: 34 Quick Essays to Get Unstuck and Stay Inspired by Keiko O’Leary
About the Author
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Welcome to the town of Waatch! It’s not on this planet, but where it resides in its world closely resembles Anacortes, Washington. It’s right there on the water, similar to the Puget Sound. In that world it’s not a sound, but definitely a mainland with islands nearby. So naturally the people of Waatch eat lots of fish and seafood. Ryn, whose story is in The Slayer’s Magic and The Traveler’s Magic, loves crab. She would prefer a nice plate of crab with some butter. But her best friend, Yll, is most fond of salmon salad sandwiches. If there’s salmon salad around, she will go straight to it. Especially if she’s been flying. Shapeshifting into a bird is hungry work. She prefers to be a cute robin redbreast, but has been known upon occasion to become an eagle. She could catch her own salmon that way, but she’s not into raw fish. There are lots of eateries that make salmon salad, but Yll’s favorite is The Tea Shop in Waatch.
The Tea Room’s Salmon Salad
CJ grew up in Southern California loving fantasy and science fiction. She is married to her husband of thirty plus years, has four children, and an ever growing number of grandchildren. Adopted at eight months old, she recently found her birth parents. She has a Masters Degree in Public History from Southern New Hampshire University, and if she’s not writing you can generally find her quilting, costuming, or traveling to spend time with those she loves. She’s a wannabe dress historian, and has worked with museums on historical dress recreation. The Slayer’s Magic and The Traveler’s Magic are the first two books in the The Beads of Bone series. You can find CJ at her website 
As someone who works deeply in the zoo/conservation industries and spends a lot of time pretending to be a tiger at conventions around the country, you might say I’m enthusiastic about animals.
Chelsea “Little Bean Tiger” Eckert (she/her) is a graduate of UNC Greensboro’s MFA program, as well as a zoo worker, furry, and fantasy fiction fan. A nonbinary writer, she happily babbles about queerness, anime chicks, and her love of binturongs to anyone who will listen. She’s proud to be the sometimes-haggard but always-cheery Communications Director of Atlanta’s MultiverseCon. You can find her either 1) at your local furry con running animal quiz shows, 2) spamming the Multiverse Slack with memes only she finds funny, or 3) on Twitter (@chelseayrbff).