Fiction Crossing Reality (Again)

I had a story jammed in my head for the last two weeks, and as we drove around town this weekend, the last two pieces of the puzzle dropped into place.  So I took three hours on Saturday to finally write the piece.  It showed how constant exposure to conspiracy theories will wear a person down, cause actual sanity loss and tragedy.  It was only 1900 words but it was grim and emotionally difficult to write, partly because the authenticity comes from the author pulling from his own struggles.  I had to recognize that I have some of those same faults.  The weakness for doosmscrolling.

One sticky point: I needed a wife or girlfriend in the story as his sounding board, the one he calls "my anchor".  But it couldn't be Anne.  Too personal.  Private.   Hands off.  I couldn't avoid pulling in a detail or two about our own lives.  Pick and choose.

As soon as story was done, I flipped down the laptop lid and hopped into bed.  I made the mistake of checking Facebook to see what some of my creative friends have been working on.  And there it was: the shooting at the White House Correspondents dinner, and EVERY talk channel was full of brand new conspiracies, embryonic bits of crazy, doubting everything, beating strawmen to death and accusing everyone before the dust had even settled.  The cognitive dissonance of seeing Jack Cochiarella wearing a tux was bad enough.  You know ... his face would fit my character well.  But not in a suit.

When did reality become a punching bag?  Every talking head trusted by thousands or millions of people just takes the ball and spins it to fit their own rules.  There is nothing left.

The story need a bit of polish, probably next weekend.  I just thought it worth mentioning that the obviously toxic stew of crazy talk shows no signs of slowing.  Tapping into it to build up to one fictional moment was painful enough.  Facing it every day just leaves me UNcomfortably numb.