My tryst with fiction

Here it is: I actually completed a piece of fiction that I’d started. It was supposed to be a story, but it turned out to be more of an experiment in very subtle magical realism than anything else. I posted the thing on Facebook, ready to brave all sorts of comments. This is what I got:

·        Better than Stephenie Meyer. Barely.

·        “Not so gud :/”

·        This isn’t fiction at all.

·        Hmm. Now check out this video.

Such lovely people. So why was my story/rambling/collection of words so strongly rejected? I have a clue. "But nothing much happens," a friend of mine intoned on the phone. This made me mad. "What does she mean nothing much happens, italicised no less?" I thought. I agree nothing much happens externally--the whole thing consists of a train ride and later, some tears; but aren't thoughts, memories, confusions and yearnings concrete incidents? Don't they usually affect the course of our lives more than "real" happenings? 

Or do people always expect extraordinary happenings and twists and morals in a story? Or am I unbelievably unimaginative?

Anyway, this episode taught me some things:

·        A little of what we hate is always present in ourselves.

·        I should have used fewer semicolons (like some writer said on his deathbed).

·        The people who encourage you are the people you are grateful to the most, because you are only human.

·        It is easy to criticise the writings of other people, and the ones who take the criticism seriously are the best of all. 

·        Never call your story Sunshine.

·        It doesn’t hurt much to dabble in things that are not your forte.