"An Unexpected Discovery"

I feel a compelling need to come clean. 

This is a first for me.   (Not feeling a compelling need to come clean.  I always feel a compelling need to come clean.  That is substantially what writing is about.  At least for those feeling a compelling need to come clean.)

I cannot definitively attest – you know, like with a Notary Public, a thumbprint and a stamp – that this has never happened before.  I am almost certain it hasn’t, but I have no corroborative backup.  I do admit sometimes fantasizing about someone poring over my work and writing their PhD. dissertation on “The Blog Writings Of Earl Pomerantz.”  But that may be serious imaginatorial overreach. 

PhD. EXAMINER:  “You have chosen to write your dissertation on ‘The Blog Writing Of Earl Pomerantz.”

PhD. CANDIDATE:  “I have.”

PhD. EXAMINER:  “My first question is ‘Why?’”

Okay, here it is.  A painful but necessary admission.

Yesterday, I wrote a post about going to this coffee place and, due to an oversight resulting from habitual behavior, I accidentally dropped a five dollar bill into the “Tip Jar” when I had intended to drop a “One.”

Straight-out confession with no weasly pussyfooting around:

That did not happen.

I have just checked, and this is my 1714^th blog post.  And I can assure you – as best as one can assure without actually knowing for certain – that this is the first time I have ever written a fabricated story and presented it as the truth.  The absolute first! 

I am virtually certain of that.

Yes, I fool around sometimes and write a post about two warthogs talking, or whatever.

WORTHOG:  “You’re ugly.”

ANOTHER WORTHOG:  “You’re ugly too.”

WORTHOG:  “Hey, maybe if we’re all ugly, then we are all actually beautiful.”

ANOTHER WORTHOG:  “No.  Some warthogs are uglier than others.”

But I have never tried to pass off such flights of anthropomorphical fancy as actual warthog conversation.  Not that I ever bothered making the distinction.  I respect my readership too much to offer a clarifying disclaimer:

THE FOLLOWING IS NOT ACTUAL WORTHOG DIALOGUE.  I MADE THE ENTIRE THING UP FOR ALLEGORICAL EFFECT.

This time, however, it’s different.  This time, I related what I represented as an actual personal experience.  And it wasn’t.

Oh, the humiliation!  Oh, the shame!

And therefore, oh, the confession, as soon as I could get back to you.

The majority of what I related did indeed take place.  I only actually changed one thing.  Which is not a lot in the overall assemblage of factual specifics.  I will admit, however, that the one thing I changed is the thing that makes the story worth telling in the first place.  So yeah, that is not a small thing.

Here’s what actually happened.

I walked over to Groundwork.  Taking a “Ten” instead of a “Five”, because I did not have a “Five” in my wallet (and I did not take my whole wallet because it’s heavy and having it in my pocket strongly increases the chances of an exercise pants “Drop-down.”)

I get my coffee, I hand over the “Ten”, and when I get my change, I drop a bill into the “Tip Jar.” 

As I walked out, however, I became suddenly agitated that I had mistakenly dropped a “Five” into the “Tip Jar” instead of the habitual “One.”  I had no actual proof that I hadn’t, because when I dropped the bill into the “Tip Jar’” – the behavior being habitual – I did not actually look.

It could have been a “Five.’  And for an upsetting interlude, l was absolutely certain it was.

The thing is,

It wasn’t.

It was a “One.”  That I Nervous Nellily believed was a “Five.”  Though to this day – hand on the Bible or book of equal intimidation – I am, in fact, not entirely sure what it was.  Still, I wrote my story as if I knew it was a “Five.”  (Did I not check my change later?  I was honestly too aggravated to.)

The only redeeming insight from this regrettable debacle is an “Unexpected Discovery.”

By changing one event in an otherwise accurate narrative, I had just written – and simultaneously discovered the essential nature of –

Fiction.

That’s right.

The thing I never write, do not much enjoy reading, and in no way aspire to write…

I had just written.

(Passing it off as the truth.  Oh, the humiliation!  Oh, the shame!  Again.)

My newly discovered definition of fiction:  A logical likelihood that didn’t happen.

You amass a bunch of credible elements, but you “massage” them a little, so it’ll be a better story.  That’s fiction.

Do I have a rationalization for this inexcusable deception?  I was looking to effectively dramatize a concept.  The “Tip Jar” incident is an identifiable exemplification of “The Downside of Habitualism.” 

It just didn’t happen.  And there is no excuse for that in a blog whose reputation is based on stories that did.

It’s funny.  While I was writing, I was exclusively focused on telling the story the best way I could.  I had written a First Draft the day before, believing I was eighty percent finished.  When I returned the next day, it took another three hours to complete. 

Congratulations.  You worked very hard on hoodwinking the public.

Okay, I deserve that.

Did it never concern you that you were foisting a fabrication on an unwitting readership?

The disturbing part is the thought never crossed my mind.  It’s like I was hypnotized.  I was totally concentrated on the writing.

I have transgressed, and I ask your forgiveness.  (Yom Kippur is just around the corner.)  I promise you, I will never do it again.

Now excuse me while I open a window, to drive the stench of disgrace out my office.