It does not breathe, it does not sleep, eat or drink. But fiction lives. Like all living beings, fiction begins as a seed, an embryo, an idea. An idea born, crawling and slithering out of the primordial depths of a writer’s mind. It incubates and evolves in the dark recesses of the mind, mutating and growing until it becomes formed, shining and shimmering, in all its glory. Fiction takes its first breaths, it is a story, waiting to be told. The story is alive, for every living being has a story to tell. In telling the story we feed the fiction, and it grows stronger, more solid.
With each telling it progresses. It grows more elaborate, more complex. Fiction latches on, almost parasitical in nature. It grabs us and feeds on our imagination, on our creative impulses. We think about the fiction, spin it in our heads, and fiction grows further. As the story moves from mouth to ear, from pen to page, it captures the minds of more and more. And thus fiction spreads, a plague of prose, an epidemic of anecdote. Each ear a new host, each pair of eyes, a carrier.
And when fiction has stretched to all corners of the earth, when it is thought it can affect no more, it is then that fiction spawns. Fiction brings about new ideas, new thoughts, new spins. An influence, they call it. For fiction, in the minds of the few, those who base their lives around it, plants seeds. There are those who tame fiction, they poke and prod it, experiment with it, breed it. They are the fields in which fiction plants its glorious seeds, and the fruit the trees yield are brilliant. A diverse poetry of words, turns of phrase the ear has never heard. Fiction infects the minds of poets and playwrights, of authors and scribes.
They harbor fiction within them, nurture fiction’s supple eggs, until they grow. Once the splendor of story is unleashed it will, in turn, spread its wings and fly out, through sky and sea, burning minds alight with imagination and vision, striking at hidden veins of inspiration, and the cycle continues ever onward, until the end of times.
Fiction lives, and you are part of it. You read this story, you close your eyes and you think of fiction. It breathes inside you now. You are touched by it, and you will move it on. You might tell your friends of this, or you might keep it dormant within the cloisters of your mind. One day you will remember. When you have lived through life and told many a tale. You will remember this tale, and you will tell it once more, one last time.
And fiction, fiction will live on.