“What is a writer of fiction but a liar with a license.” Joanne Harris
Now and then I run across Facebook posts asking people to describe their job. My answer has always been that I sell lies. Seems I’m not the only fiction writer to think that way. I won’t comment on my skill level except to say I get lots of practice.
When I’m not editing other people’s lies to make them better, writing posts about publishing lies, or reading tales of fiction, I am weaving my own special brand of falsehood. Except on Tuesday mornings when things get really serious. That’s when I gather with my fellow vets to tell war stories—that sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, genre of fiction known only to veterans.
Our weekly gathering spot has been dubbed the Liar’s Table. The little congregation that meets there is as faithful as any church group and far more involved in participation than most. We are diverse and inclusive, but the equality of the truth-bending in storytelling is subject to question.
Though I’m the only writer in the group, we all seem to derive the same benefit that I do from my writing. That is, I feel better and may be a better person afterward. I’m certainly easier to get along with. In other words, it’s therapeutic. None of us have any misgivings about that.
Lest you think it’s simply a case of toxic masculinity running wild, there’s scripture that supports our meeting does us good. Solomon, the wisest man ever to live, said, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth up the bones.” We’re all old, so dry bones are a real health threat.
As far as the merry heart goes, well, we do a lot of laughing—mostly at ourselves for some of the outrageous things we did for our Uncle Sam. There were no phones that made videos back then for which we are all grateful. So, there’s no evidence which ensures immunity from prosecution and opens the door to the occasional mild exaggeration.
Happy Veterans Day.
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