Episode 1.3. In Which Curious Questions Are Asked

         Neil Gaimen mentions that writers of fiction use lies to tell a 'human truth'. That it will tell something about how we as humans love, how we react to stress, how we will, under extraordinary circumstances risk our own lives for love, revenge, or power. Or perhaps to simply have a normal life. We showcase human nature using people that never existed, doing things that never happened. Things, people and places that are lies.
But wait! From the time we were children, weren't we always told not to lie? That it was a very naughty thing to do, and we would get punished if found out?
Ah. "If".
So some obeyed. Some hedged their bets---on occasion. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. And then there were some who realized it could be a tool with which you could manipulate people, so they practiced, and became skilled at it. They then were perhaps able to garner love, exact revenge, or accumulate power. And when they are discovered, if ever, they are vilified, brought down, and left in the dust of our fury at them having fooled us for so long.
Novelists are expected to create stories using the exact same skill. Not only expected, but encouraged. Lauded when it's an especially good set of lies. However, they are expected to know where the line is that must not be crossed; they need to hone the Art of Lying to create stories that will entertain, puzzle and compel us, but to never use that skill as they themselves go about their daily business.
So where does that line lie? And when, as a child, did they figure out that 'lying' was naughty, but playing 'make-believe' was okay? When realization of that separation dawns, like the sun suddenly catching the edge of a mirror and the light hits your eye so hard it hurts; is that point, that single fraction of a second, when we become adults?
Once Upona