suspension of disbelief

most lying is logistically or necessarily comprised of the truth—it’s the truth edited, proofread, or manipulated, if you will. for most of us see the truth as no better than a rough draft that has to be worked on or removed of the unnecessary, the harmful, until it becomes presentable, readable, or until it is ready to be read, to be disclosed or made public. hence, our necessity to fill in the blanks, insert a lie here and there while omitting some but not all of the compromising material. for some of the dirt has to be left alone in order for our story to hold water, to appear or come across as believable and not contrived. it’s not necessarily that we’re liars, it’s that others ask or expect too much out of us. it’s that they’re asking us to go against our own good, asking us, literally and figuratively, to shoot ourselves in the foot: and who, in their right minds, will do that? exactly, not many. this is why we lie even in the face of indisputable evidence, why we quickly come up with stories in an effort to discredit such evidence, convince the other person that he or she is seeing or understanding the evidence the wrong way—for, like in art, there are multiple interpretations to weigh or consider before a verdict. in fact, most of us tell or resort to the truth only when it doesn’t matter anymore, when it no longer could come back to haunt us, or when we have no other way out of a sticky or ugly situation—when we have no choice. for success in life really boils down to how we handle or retell or rework the truth, to how we make ourselves credible or believable even though more often than not we’re lying through our teeth. it’s about making the truth work for us and not against us, about convincing the unconvinced, about planting a seed of doubt in their minds and getting or earning, in the process, the benefit of their doubt. it’s about fiction, in other words, about suspension of disbelief.   

c. a. campos, 2010