Thursday Two Questions/Actual Fragments of Conversation Into Fiction

by the |G| TM

Welcome to Thursday Two Questions.

In Monday's post, I wrote about a homework assignment I had in a creative writing class at UCDavis Extension where I was asked to write an incident that included a fragment of conversation, keeping as close to the actual incident as possible. 

Then I was to write an invented scene containing that same fragment of conversation.

When we read the two scenes aloud, the class tried to guess which of the two incidents was real and which was fiction.

Not surprisingly, the class often had a difficult time distinguishing between the two.

My Thursday Two Questions to you are:

1. Have you ever mixed fact and fiction, be it in a story you wrote or in the retelling of an incident in your life (you know, those little white lies to make the tale more interesting as in many memoirs and those biographies on TV)?
2. In your opinion, is it okay to stretch the truth a bit for the sake of a good story, or do you draw a sharp line between fact and fiction?

If you'd like to further participate in Thursday Two Questions, follow the link below.



Incorporating Actual Fragments of Conversation Into Fiction

For a homework assignment in a creative writing class at UCDavis Extension, I was asked to write an incident that included a fragment of conversation, keeping as close to the actual incident as possible.  250 words.

Next, I was to write an invented scene containing that same fragment of conversation.  250 words.

Here it goes:

CRUISE CONTROL #1

By merfam

Driving down Twin Cities Road toward Highway 99 and listening to Russ Limbaugh trash Bill Maher for trashing "Joe the Plumber," I happened to glance at my rear view mirror. 

There was a black and white tailing me with its red and blue lights spinning.  Damn!  I checked my speedometer.  Oh Boy, this is going to cost me. 

Mindful of my in-case-you-get-stopped-for-speeding etiquette, I pulled over and put my hands where the office could see them--on my steering wheel, positioned at 10:10.  When he motioned for me to open my passenger window, I wondered if now would be a good time to mention that this would be my first citation. 

No, I decided.  He'd probably just say I'd been lucky, which would be true.  Heaven knows how many traffics laws I'd unintentionally broken over the years, surely enough to wallpaper our den with tickets by now. 

He asked for my driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, and then after a short trip to his patrol car and back, he asked, "Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Sixty?" I said, poising my answer as a question, thereby making it less a lie.

The officer didn't bat an eye, undoubtedly used to such antics by now.  "I clocked you at seventy-five." 

Not bad, considering I was driving my husband's three-quarter ton diesel on a curvy section of road. 

He handed me what looked like a Wal Mart receipt and asked me to sign it.  "I'm citing you for sixty-five, which will save you a bundle, since the posted speed limit here is fifty-five."

I tried to look contrite, but darn it, at fifty-nine years old, I'd finally gotten my first ticket--for speeding no less.  My sons would be proud of me.  Way to go Mom.

"You might consider using cruise control in the future," the officer said, all buddy-buddy now that he knew I wasn't carrying contraband or planning to flirt or cry.

Cruise control, my foot.  I'd been on cruise control all my life.  It was time I dumped the panty hose and padded bra and flung myself into the future head on. 

I gave him a bright smile as if he were my new best friend.  "Thank you, officer.  I'll certainly take that into consideration."

CRUISE CONTROL #2

By Phil Yorke

As Elsie propelled her Volvo down Highway 1, I gripped the front console so hard my knuckles turned white.  And I nearly jammed my feet through the floorboard.  Not only did the narrow, winding road make me nervous, but Elsie was driving as if it were a racetrack instead of an obstacle course.  "Do you know how fast you're going?" I asked between clenched teeth. 

Elsie's response, a loud, throaty laugh.

At this speed, I figured we'd miss our destination altogether, but no, Elsie had things under complete control. 

Without warning, she braked, swerved off the road, and screeched into a crude pullout to our right.

"You must have an angel on your shoulder," I huffed, holding one hand across my chest and the other over my belly.

"Oh quit being such a fussbudget," she said, her earrings dangling like baited fishing lines. 

I gave an unladylike snort.  "I'd rather ride with a ninety year old granny."

Obviously taking no offense, Elsie pointed into the distance.  "Look Fran!"

Nestled among the trees on a large volcanic rock and surrounded by crashing surf and shifting sand stood The Point Sur Lighthouse.  A rush of emotion brought a lump to my throat. 

I love lighthouses.  They stand tall and firm during times of difficulty, serving as beacons of light, guiding, projecting and comforting. 

I released my grip on the console and relaxed my feet.

Elsie flashed me an innocent smile.  "Feel better now?"

I did, but felt compelled to say, "In the future, you might consider using cruise control."

With a wave of her hand, Elsie brushed away my comment.  "Rest up, worry wart.  We've got a 360 foot climb ahead of us, one mile round trip.  What we'll need is jet propulsion, not cruise control."

###

If you're approaching this exercise from a reader's point of view, you can see how writers are able to come up with some interesting results when using actual fragments of conversation in their fiction.

If, on the other hand, you're a writer, you might want to give this exercise a try and come up with your own interesting results.