Writing Truth vs. Facts

D. Vincent Delorenzo

So, Clara, I keep coming back to this idea—stories can be true without sticking to the facts, right? I mean, emotional and narrative honesty, they're not the same thing, but they get tangled up. Like, you remember something, but it's not quite how it happened—all the details are fuzzy, but the feeling is still burning hot.

Clara Wren

Totally, and you nailed it: memory is patchy, but meaning kind of lingers, doesn’t it? So, when writers say “write your truth,” we’re not talking about court transcripts—we’re talking about the parts that feel real, the stuff that actually matters to people who pick up your book.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly. I mean, the brain fills in gaps. The challenge as writers is not to dress up the facts, but to clarify the underlying dilemma. So, for me, in Sand and Silence, I didn’t tell one soldier’s exact story—I created a composite character. That way, you get the grit and heartbreak, but you’re not outing anybody. It’s about giving readers the heartbeat of what was true without painting a target on the real folks behind the curtain.

Clara Wren

So, you’re saying fiction gives us this special permission to blur a few details, but the core tension, the moral crossroads—keep that untouched? I love your “lighthouse” for this: change the details, keep the dilemma. That’s what sticks with people, not whether the uniform was khaki or olive drab.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, the uniform doesn’t matter—unless, I dunno, it’s the uniform that’s the dilemma! But if you get that deep truth right, readers sense it. It’s less about playing historian and more about being faithful to the current that runs underneath, you know?

Clara Wren

And I guess fiction also lets you protect people’s privacy—swap around timelines, blend a couple of folks together, so what needs to be told gets told without leaving anyone exposed. It’s like using a lantern—you see what’s essential, but the rest is gently in shadow.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Perfect. The lantern guides, but doesn’t blind. You want readers facing the hard questions, not distracted by a checklist of dates and street names. When the dilemma is honest, the story rings true.

Clara Wren

Let’s get a bit more hands-on. So, say I’ve got a weird mix of reality and fiction in my manuscript—what are your top methods to blend it all together without crossing a line?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Alright, quick toolkit: first, notebooks—just jot sensory details before you polish or self-censor, like the way diesel fumes smell at dawn or… I dunno, a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. Second, research—even the little moments. Third, compression. Merge folks, trim timelines—life rambles, stories can’t. Fourth, displacement. Change the details that don’t matter: hairstyles, job titles, street names. And finally, be transparent—add a note at the end of your book letting people know what you’ve adjusted and why.

Clara Wren

I like that—your own sort of guidepost at the end. Now, on compression and composites, when is it… responsible, I guess, to merge real people into one character, say, in a war novel or a memoir?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

So this one’s important. Only make a composite when it captures a pressure or a dilemma—not just a person’s private detail. And don’t use the new character as a disguise for… getting back at someone. If you're tempted, that’s a big warning sign, right?

Clara Wren

Yeah, if it starts to sound suspiciously like score-settling, maybe delete and get some perspective. But what details are actually safe to change?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Non-core stuff, usually. Change the city, change the haircut—or, I dunno, if your mate’s car was a beat-up Corolla, make it a Camry. But never change something that increases the risk for a real person or hides a harm. That’s the line, I think.

Clara Wren

Alright, practical challenge time. Can you give us a few writing exercises for anybody struggling to blend fact and fiction honestly?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Absolutely. Try this: Exercise One—Inventory of the Real. Just list details from a memory—textures, smells, a sliver of dialogue. Don’t write sentences, just fragments. The idea is, you skip the performance and reach for raw, unfiltered stuff—later, you’ll weave these bits into your scene.

Clara Wren

That’s my favorite—there’s a freedom in the fragments, right? What else?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exercise Two—Composite with Care. Write a paragraph where you merge two people’s habits or pressures into one new character. Focus on what they want, not who inspired them. Duty, jealousy, mercy—write from that center.

Clara Wren

Nice. And a third one?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Silence as Architecture. Strip a scene of the three lines that explain the feeling—you know the ones: “He was angry,” that sort of thing. Replace them with a physical action and a single object. Read it aloud—if the emotion’s still there, you’ve nailed the hidden truth.

Clara Wren

Ah, so let the emotion come in sideways, instead of hammering it in. But with all these tools, there’s a risk of stepping wrong—what are some classic pitfalls and quick ways back?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Sure. Pitfall one: the score-settling scene—if you’re sneaking revenge into the manuscript, pause and ask what the character is really after: relief, dignity, probably not vengeance. Give them a cost. Next, Wikipedia Texture—facts, facts, facts, but no feeling. If you haven’t felt it yourself, interview someone who has, steal a sensation—ground every paragraph with a real sense.