And now for something not so different… Fiction v nonfiction

When I decided to switch gears from writing nonfiction to dabble in fiction (after finishing my memoir, An Obesity of Grief), I thought it would be a complete one-eighty, like when I switched majors from marketing to English. I was going to make things up. Build a world no one inhabited until my words created it.

But it wasn’t long into the writing process when I realized something that, as a reader, I’ve known since I learned to read: Nothing in fiction is truly made up. Even if the setting is Mars or the main characters are a spider and a pig, every plot and character interaction and emotion is nothing someone, somewhere, at some time hasn’t already lived in or through.  

To paraphrase the Beatles, there’s nothing we can know that isn’t already known.

As an essayist and blog writer for almost thirty years, I’ve covered a lot of topics, but I focused mostly on grief, body image, and self-esteem. I was, and still am, passionate about sharing my experiences with these issues for two reasons: 1) so someone else might feel less alone; and 2) so that I feel less alone. Back in the day, I was the queen of keeping emotions bottled up until they manifested in not-so-healthy ways and habits. Eventually I freed them through words (and therapy), and I discovered an audience (sometimes of one, sometimes of thousands) with whom those words resonated.

Transitioning to fiction, I thought I would lose that connection. I feared I’d be writing in a vacuum. Alone. No interaction until the final product was out there. Unlike a blog post that is instantaneous, a novel isn’t something you post every week or month. So when I was thinking about what the heck to write about for this first post in several months (and given I wasn’t motivated to write about “the real world”, such as it is these days), I drew blank after blank. Then I remembered that little differentiates nonfiction from fiction in terms of human experience, and so I decided I’d introduce you to the plot and characters in the final draft of my first novel (before an editor gets their hands on it), tentatively called Between Here and Gone.

Between Here and Gone has grief, betrayal, and skewed self-esteem side by side with love, tenacity, and a generous helping of humble pie. Just like nonfiction.

The story is based on my great-grandparents’ relationship. Alexandra and Mathias Petterson emigrated to southwest Minnesota (Jasper) in 1902 with their first two children: my grandmother Katinka (b. 1897) and great-uncle Johnnie (b. 1901). Although Mathias had made his living as a fisherman in the Lofoten region of Norway, he—like many immigrants at the time—became a farmer.

Whether out of boredom or a longing for home, Mathias moved the family back to Norway in 1920, against Alexandra’s wishes. In Norway, he owned a butcher shop, and soon discovered the luscious and willing baker’s wife, who lived across the street. When Alexandra learned of their affair, she insisted they move back to Minnesota. Mathias agreed, but plotted to leave the family on the ship just before it departed Liverpool. Again, Alexandra learned of his plan and found a way to stop him.

But did that stop Mathias from being with the “love of his life”? Heck no. A few weeks after returning to Minnesota, he slipped away (via a Swedish steamer…more on that in later posts) and returned to Norway.

Fast forward two years. The baker’s wife left Mathias, and he began writing love letters to Alexandra, begging her to return to Norway…

This is the point in their story when I really started making things up. And I had a great time doing it!

That’s all for now. In my next post, I’ll tell you a little more about Alexandra, the protagonist of the novel.