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LAGNIAPPE - FICTION IS NEVER TRULY FICTION by Dianne C. Braley
LAGNIAPPE
Fiction is Never Truly Fiction by Dianne C. Braley
If someone you love was assaulted, abused, or was a victim of a crime—you are a secondary victim. If the perpetrator is also someone you love, there are no words.
Madeline and Summer are more than best friends. They might as well be sisters; they've claimed the title, anyway—and sisters tell each other everything. But Summer has a secret she's been hiding for years. Someone's been hurting her, someone close, and when it comes out, it destroys everything around her with the force of dying stars.
Six years after the trial, Madeline is a haunted young woman trying to build a new life in Boston, but the guilt of her betrayal when her friend needed her most—brings her to the brink of suicide. Madeline embarks on a journey to heal from the damage caused by Summer's secret and both her and her mother's terrible response. To let go of the past, Madeline must confront her father, mother, and all those involved with the trial that split her family apart—or continue her descent into dust, finishing what she started to escape it.
Fiction is never truly fiction, is it? That’s certainly been my experience, and I’m sure many fiction writers would agree. As much as I’d like to say otherwise, the blurb for my next book reveals just how close fiction can come to reality. We call it fiction to give ourselves the freedom to reshape the world around us—to use reality as a foundation and then twist it to fit our imaginations. Fiction offers a break from the constraints of fact, a chance to escape the rigid demands of non-fiction, which can often feel limiting and exhausting. But even as we stretch the truth, a core of reality always remains—often drawn from personal experiences that are difficult and painful to revisit. That’s where fiction becomes a refuge—my refuge, especially in my upcoming book, The Summer Before.
The story is based on real events, ones that were excruciating to live through, let alone write about. But through fiction, by altering the names, places, timelines, and details, I can shift the weight of that pain onto my characters. They become the ones to bear the agony, allowing me to explore it from a safer distance. Fiction offers a unique space to either heighten the turmoil or seek resolution, even when the writer hasn’t found peace themselves.
My book was inspired by a deeply traumatic event: an extended family member was charged and convicted of sexually assaulting his daughter’s best friend, turning our family’s world upside down. At the time, I was in the midst of writing a novel about three girls navigating the tangled web of dysfunctional family dynamics, organized crime, and heartache in my hometown of Boston. One character had been sexually exploited, and a brutal assault was central to the plot. Writing that storyline was already emotionally difficult; I had researched real victims’ stories to portray it with authenticity, as I had been fortunate enough never to have experienced that kind of trauma myself.
When our own family crisis unfolded, it felt as though the ground vanished beneath us—much like the Turkish Twist ride at Canobie Lake Park, a local favorite. As the ride spins, the floor drops out, and riders are left clinging to the walls, weightless and disoriented. That’s exactly how it felt when our family member was charged. My husband was inwardly collapsing, and I was struggling not to be pulled down with him. Yet, in time, a new path emerged, and my purpose as a writer became clearer than ever.
In cases of sexual assault, people often focus on the victims, as they should—their lives, and the lives of their families, are forever altered or ruined. The perpetrator is seen as a monster, a devil. And while that might be true, the reality is often more complex. Perpetrators don’t always walk around like monsters, warning everyone to flee. Many are beloved fathers, brothers, husbands, or respected pillars of the community. This is what makes it even harder to comprehend.
When the person who committed such a heinous crime belongs to you, it brings shame, guilt, and endless questions. Some family members clung to blind faith, defending him because he was "ours." Others questioned everything, vacillating between doubt and belief. I, however, listened to the trial and came to a firm conclusion that he was guilty. I became a fierce opponent to his presence in our lives, but our responses clashed, and eventually, the weight of our differing views made it easier to avoid talking about it altogether. That silence brought even more shame—the kind that festers as a dirty family secret, the kind you don’t speak of. And all of this was largely unknown to him—the man whose actions had destroyed so many lives.
During the trial, my heart broke for the victim again and again, though I didn’t know her personally. Besides her, the person whose pain haunted me was his daughter, the perpetrator’s child, who took the stand to plead for her father’s innocence. She had not only lost her father but also her best friend—the victim. They had been inseparable, calling each other sisters since childhood. Hearing her confusion and heartache shattered something inside me that still hasn’t healed.
I began watching other trials, not to focus on the primary victims but to understand the secondary ones—the families of the perpetrators. These are the people no one wants to think about, silently enduring their own form of grief and devastation. Society often overlooks them, as if wishing they would just disappear, but they, too, are victims—forgotten, silenced, and left to pick up the pieces of lives shattered by someone they loved. These are the voices I wanted to capture in my writing—the ones who are too often ignored.
This was a daunting task, and at times, it led me into a dark spiral, balancing the weight of my own writing, my family's trauma, and some people I love’s avoidance of confronting it. I'll admit, I didn’t always handle things as well as I could have. But I felt a fierce obligation to protect the victims—the ones like his daughter and my family, the ones who couldn’t or wouldn’t speak for themselves, and the brave ones who did. I needed people to see that this darkness exists—that evil and unspeakable acts are committed by those we least expect. Until we bring these truths to light and give all victims, both primary and secondary, a voice free from shame—no matter how uncomfortable the conversation may be—we will continue to enable these crimes.
My book is set on Martha’s Vineyard, a place that has always been my sanctuary but one that, as I explored in my first book, took on a darker significance during a difficult chapter of my life. That story, like this one, was fiction rooted in real events—giving deeper meaning to the title here. As part of my journey, I partnered with Martha’s Vineyard Community Services and their CONNECT program, which works to reduce domestic and sexual violence on the island through education, advocacy, and community mobilization. They provide crucial crisis intervention, counseling, and support services for victims, along with ongoing advocacy.
Martha’s Vineyard may be a happy place for many, and it remains a special refuge for me, but it is not—and never will be—immune to tragedy or darkness. No place is. But we can make it safer everywhere by speaking these truths and allowing all primary and secondary victims to feel, express, and heal in the light of their own stories.
