“Historical fiction,” I said professorially, “are stories taking place within an actual historical time period. Or based around true historic events. The characters can be real people from the past, or completely fictitious. At times a combination of both.”
“Like Planet of the Apes,” Smirnov said, pouring himself another drink. We were sitting at my kitchen table and the lights were off. Faint moonlight seeped in through the window. The room was quiet.
“I think that’s fiction.” I reached for the bottle after he’d set it down.
“How can you say that?” Smirnov protested. “‘Apes’ really happened. It happened in the past.”
“Or was it the future?” I winked at him.
Smirnov swallowed his vodka. If he knew I was pulling his leg, he didn’t let on. “It depends if you envision time as linear. Neither I nor Kierkegaard do.”
I decided to reel him back to our conversation. “Creative nonfiction, on the other hand, is a factual story about real people who are involved in real events. The history can be proven and verified.”
“What about dialogue?” he asked.
“Aye, there’s the rub,” I said.
“Is that Shakespeare or Arthur Conan Doyle?”
“What? The rub?” I thought about it. “Shakespeare, would be my guess. Maybe Hamlet? I think Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes was fond of saying, ‘Evil’s afoot’.”
“Wrong, jackass!” Smirnov laughed. “The game’s afoot is Shakespeare, again. Henry the something or other. Evil’s afoot is Doyle borrowing Shakespeare.”
“Forsooth?” I said, playing along.
“Sure as we’re drinking vodka together.”
This circuitous conversation needed to end, I decided. “So I hope this clears up your confusion on historical fiction versus creative nonfiction.”
Smirnov thought for a minute. “I suppose. But let’s see if I’ve got it right: you making up BS and setting it in a real time period…that’s historical fiction. You writing about real people and stuff that actually happened, then making up the crap they might have said about it—that’s creative nonfiction.” He smirked. “That about right?”
I shrugged.
“What about our conversation here? Right now? Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Well, you’re real, aren’t you? We’re talking actual words and drinking vodka together. So I’d say we’re in a nonfiction story.”
“Except for the part where your mind plays tricks,” Smirnov suggested, a glint near his label. “What if I’m just the bottle of vodka sitting here on your table? Nothing more?”
I sighed. “You’re giving me a headache.” I shoved my glass toward him. “Pour me another drink. Please.”
Smirnov filled my glass. “What about your hangover tomorrow?” he asked. “Is that going to be real or fiction?”
I closed my eyes and sipped my drink. A cloud passed over the moon and the room’s faint light grew a little dimmer.
