Resurrecting The Real Through Fiction: A Manifesto

The Nuts and Bolts of a Highly Intentional Approach to Storytelling

As we discussed in a previous post, reality is dead for the postmodern mind—yet wanderers still long for the real. As writers, we have a unique ability to resurrect reality for our readers through the powerful techniques of fiction. We can actually show them truths that are more real than their everyday reality within the space of the imagination.

But how do we do this practically? How can we intentionally steer our stories in this direction?

Behold, our manifesto! For those of us who’ve committed to resurrecting the real, here’s what we’d like to explore in our writing.

1. Telling the truth about sacrifice vs. self-actualization and wish-fulfillment

It’s no secret our culture is obsessed with the self. Between living our best lives and practicing self-care, we’re drowning in the assumption that people should always get what they want or what feels good.

In the realm of storytelling, this basic view of the world creates a certain kind of protagonist—an archetype that’s getting a lot of airtime these days. You know the type. Smart, sarcastic, quick with the hot takes, throws a wicked roundhouse kick, definitely on the right side of justice and history.

This person has no need of mercy because they’ve never done anything wrong—they’ve only been wronged. Their mission in life is to enact their version of justice and come out on top. This doesn’t look like salvation by sacrifice, but rather salvation by kicking butt. They’ll never get placed in a character arc of sacrifice, anyway, because their author doesn’t even know what that looks like.

We’re all for dominant and capable heroes—as long as they come with some moral nuance. So-called justice enacted this way is never black and white, and revenge hurts those who take vengeance. If a vengeance arc is going to resonate with deep reality, we need to see that justice warrior damaged at the end, questioning whether they really did the right thing and haunted by the people they destroyed.

Of course, not all wish-fulfillment arcs look like contemporary social justice narratives. Wish-fulfillment can also mean plummeting deep into the black hole of the self. Our culture is obsessed with self-actualization and self-pleasing, and it portrays these things as positives. Where our stories touch on the urge to wish-fulfillment, we promise to tell the truth about deep reality. One of the greatest examples of such truth-telling is the end of Descent Into Hell by Charles Williams. This novel has flaws, but it’s a great example of what we’re talking about here.

Spoilers ahead!

Throughout the story, an older man named Wentworth has been obsessed with Adela, a much younger woman who’s engaged. His desire has managed to conjure a simulated double of Adela that’s sort of corporeal but has no mind of its own, being animated only by Wentworth’s will. Across the story, Wentworth fades deeper and deeper into the shadow world of his fantasy until the final scene, when he signs off from reality forever.

A contemporary viewpoint might say, hey! He’s creating his own reality. He’s happy in the world of his mind. What does it matter if it’s not real?

It’s pretty hard to make that argument after reading the book—which is why this type of portrayal matters. That’s what we pledge to do in our own work. When we portray wish-fulfillment arcs, we’ll do so in a way that accords with deep reality.  

As our work tells the truth about vengeance and wish-fulfillment, it should also tell the truth about sacrifice. The greatest protagonist is the one who will die for others, whether literally or metaphorically. We believe there’s nothing higher than such an act. So when our work touches on sacrifice, we’ll portray it as it is—a noble, world-shattering choice that puts mere wish-fulfillment to shame. And if our protagonists must throw roundhouse kicks, they’ll do so with full moral awareness and humility, mourning the fact that they must use force and considering that they may be morally compromised.

2. Mercy moments (even morally complex mercy)

In one sense, love is what makes a story go round. There are no stakes without love, at least no satisfying stakes. The best stakes for the protagonist are those that tie into their most important relationships.

But I would argue there’s an even more powerful force in fiction. It’s mercy.

Mercy is universally relatable—and even characters without preexisting love relationships can experience it. Perhaps the greatest example of mercy in fiction is the priest pardoning Jean Valjean in Les Miserables. If that scene doesn’t break your heart, you’re dead.

Mercy can take strange forms, too. It can even land a character in moral compromise.

More spoilers ahead!

One of my favorite moments of morally compromised mercy happens in the Amazon show The Man in the High Castle. I will warn you, it’s a really violent show, and I stopped watching it. But there’s an incredible moment when John Smith, an American Nazi captain, has to decide whether to allow his son to be euthanized in accordance with Nazi eugenics. He receives the doctor who will euthanize his son, and in a sudden twist of motive, he grabs the doctor’s hand, turns the syringe around, and euthanizes the doctor. It’s a shocking scene, and a great example of satisfying horror, which we’ll get to in a moment. But for our purposes here, it’s a challenging, morally compromised act of mercy toward his son.

Of course, mercy flows from love, so the two are interrelated. But mercy comes with the extra component of punishment canceled. That’s where it gets its power, and that’s why we promise to consider mercy in our stories—even, perhaps, to build our narratives around great moments of mercy.

3. Relationally-defined identity compared to intersectional identity

The intersectional identities of critical theory present a significant problem for the fiction writer working today. This way of looking at identity defines the individual by non-universal characteristics like oppression suffered and justice owed—rather than by universally relatable characteristics like family relationships and love and responsibility both enjoyed and owed.

We would argue that this identity framework creates a narrow view of people. In the realm of fiction, we believe this framework creates narrow characters when intersectional identity becomes the focus of character development or the primary selling point of a character.

Regardless, certain elements in our culture are highly interested in this identity framework. Consequently, the publishing industry will inevitably look for intersectional identities in a novel, both in its characters and its author.

We should think carefully about this when it comes to our work. Naturally, a character needs unique traits as well as universals, and diverse characters reflect the diversity of humanity. But characters just don’t feel real when their author zeroes in on intersectional identities at the expense of universals.

Specifically, this type of portrayal doesn’t feel deeply real because grievance-based intersectionality creates identities that are radically anti-communal. Rather than being someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister, friend or spouse, the identified person is reduced to a locus of injustice that can be healed by vengeance alone, not by love. And vengeance makes a person so very alone.

The irony here is incredible. Though identitarian politics group people by their grievances, the very definition of identity by grievance—by a negative, by love not received—rather than by the positive endowments of family relationships, responsibility, tradition, and heritage—atomizes the identified individual. It leaves the person as a form whose lines are chiseled only by the violence of oppression. This definition gives oppression the last word in the conversation by which identity is formed.

Now, grievance and oppression certainly have their place in fiction. Without antagonism, there’s no story. The question, though, is whether a protagonist defined solely by grievance and a quest for social vengeance actually works. We say it doesn’t if the protagonist doesn’t wrestle with their own potential moral compromise.

Rather than intersectional identity, we’d like to focus on a different identity framework in our stories. Specifically, we’re more interested in identity as defined by relational nexuses. In our own lives, people we love have had a big hand in forging our identities. And while we wouldn’t deny the inward component of identity, we believe a character comes off as slightly less than human if they don’t cherish at least one relationship that’s been received, rather than chosen. So we promise to give significant weight in our characters to their families and background culture, rather than solely defining them by anti-communal identities that are driven by nothing but individual choice and wish-fulfillment quests.

4. Satisfying horror that resurrects the real

Does horror have a place in writing that attempts to portray the good, true, and beautiful?

Absolutely. In fact, horror can be incredibly satisfying when it illustrates truths of deep reality.

More spoilers ahead! Let’s talk about the end of That Hideous Strength by C. S. Lewis. In the chapter “Banquet at Belbury,” the bigwigs of the N.I.C.E., the bad guys, get together for a formal dinner. The ancient druid Merlin, who’s been reawakened, frees all the animals that the N.I.C.E had captured for vivisection and turns them loose on the banquet one-by-one. A tiger, a wolf, an elephant, and other creatures transform the dining hall into a gory mess.

The scene isn’t super explicit, but on paper, it should be disgusting. For some reason, it isn’t—at least not for me. It’s because of everything we’ve seen the N.I.C.E. do across the course of the novel. It’s not like a slasher story that celebrates gore for no reason. Rather, the supreme rightness of the scene gives it a kind of sublime glory. It’s a form of satisfying horror that resurrects the real by painting a picture of what’s right.

5. Rootedness compared to rootlessness

One could argue that rootlessness has contributed to the divisiveness of our culture. A young professional who can uproot to any coastal city for a new job may think they’re forging an identity, but we would argue they’ve left quite a bit of their received identity behind. (We would also argue that meaningful identity is largely received from others, not self-created—and we discussed that earlier.)

As it’s usually portrayed in books, movies, and TV, the identity that the rootless person strives after is defined by a pursuit of status, success, and noncommittal sex rather than place, community, neighborhood, family, or legacy. Things like status, success, and noncommittal sex can’t be held in common. The possession of such things can accrue only to the unfettered individual. And who except the rootless individual has escaped all fetters?

But rootlessness doesn’t occur only through geographical displacement. To abandon one’s culture and heritage is to cut one’s roots, even if one never leaves home.

The question for writers is how their work will treat rootedness and rootlessness. The pain of rootlessness offers plenty of fodder for character development, but we would argue it should be portrayed in a way that represents that pain accurately—that says, “the goodness of rootedness is deeply real.” In other words, our work should truthfully represent the loss of meaning that comes with rootlessness while also groping toward the meaning of rootedness—whether that treatment is aspirational or concrete within the narrative.

Wrap up

This type of writing isn’t for everyone. Maybe it’s too intentional, or maybe it pushes back against an ideology that one holds dear. That’s okay—these stories aren’t for everyone. But this is the kind of story that speaks to us, because it reflects deep reality. It’s the kind of story we’re committed to writing.