The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema Page B

I Wake and the continued existence
of an antiquarian bookstore in the new novel where now
there is only a financial planning company should attest.
As a general rule, though, inventing a place gives you more
freedom. I couldn’t, for example, write about characters in
Agassiz going to a movie, because Agassiz, during the time
of my existence hasn’t had a movie theatre. Henderson
does, though. (Can you tell I’m still a little ticked at the
lack of a movie theatre in Agassiz when I was growing up?)
It allows you a larger freedom as well, the freedom to create
histories and identities and backstories. Again, if you need
it, you can create it. It’s not like writing about Victoria and
needing, for some reason, to have the city destroyed in a
historic fire at the turn of the century. That kind of thing
just doesn’t fly.
    And then there’s the issue of . . . well, let’s call it civility.
But fear might be another way of looking at it. And deniability. Let’s face it, if you’re writing in the “real” world,
somebody, somewhere, sometime is going to get pissed and
assume that the very worst of the characters in your book is,
in fact, a barely concealed version of his- or herself. Nobody
wants a story filled with saints and piety (God, where would
be the fun in that?), but people don’t want to think that
they’re the basis for the very nadir of your creations. And
in the event that you’re confronted by a 6’ 2” refrigerator
of a man with a badge, who’s drunkenly complaining that
the pants-wetting, alcoholic, child-molesting deputy in
your book must be him, being able to say, “No, no, it’s just
a story! See! It’s in a completely different town! Completely
imaginary!” might, just might, help you avoid the shit-kicking, which, let’s face it, you probably deserve.
    I’m sure the residents of Lafayette County and Neepawa
weren’t always that keen on how “they” were depicted in
Faulkner and Laurence’s writing, but what can you do?
    And speaking of shit-kicking, there’s also the issue of
cruelty. And this is, for me, a pretty pertinent reason to
distance a real town by creating a simulacrum.
    Let’s look at Castle Rock and Derry, two of Stephen
King’s “wholesome” little towns. Jesus, what that man puts
those people through is nothing short of malicious. I mean,
killer clowns, fer the love of Pete! Does it get any worse
than that? And I bet he does it with a smile on his face.
No, I’m sure he does it with a smile on his face, because I’ve
been there. I’ve done that. The things that happen in the
Henderson stories . . . the mind reels.
    And while the thought of burning the town of Agassiz
to the ground is reprehensible (and, yes, I realize, likely
psychotic), with Henderson, it’s all right. No, it’s better than
all right: it’s the right thing to do. Well, given the context
and the events surrounding it.
    Which is probably the key thing, now that I think about
it. The main reason for the creation of Henderson was that
it allowed me access to those stories I wanted to tell, and a
context in which to tell them.
    Let’s face it — I’m odd. I know that. Anyone who’s spent
any time at all talking with me knows it; it’s an undeniable
fact.
    And I have odd ideas for stories. How else would I be able
to go from a perfectly innocent, nay, almost heart-warming
story about a smalltown agricultural fair to a story that
has its roots in ideas of pagan sacrifice, the Eleusinian
Mysteries and a willing death for the good of a community?
That’s not a logical leap.
    And so long as I was thinking about Agassiz, it was an
impossible leap even for me to make.
    Agassiz is so rich in my mind, its people so familiar
to me, its landscape so real, so drenched in memory and
experience, that it’s literally impossible for me to write
about it. And certainly