Sometimes Fiction Is the Only Way Left to Tell the Truth
When I wrote Johnnie and Me, I thought I was done.
I had told my story.
It was personal. It was honest. It was the story of addiction, recovery, and the remarkable transformation that can occur through a sincere heart-to-heart connection.
Everything significant in my life, whether great, tragic, or messy, happened for a reason. I revealed my strengths and vulnerabilities. I was emotionally naked.
There was nothing left to hide.
Then something unexpected happened.
The more I spoke with readers, physicians, addiction specialists, and people in recovery, the more I realized there were questions that could not be answered with a memoir alone.
As a society, we have become very accomplished at talking about addiction. Yet I sometimes wonder whether our conversations are becoming more sophisticated than our ability to help people build lasting recovery.
We measure overdoses. We measure emergency room visits. We measure prescriptions, relapses, and treatment metrics. These are important numbers, and they deserve our attention.
I often wonder about the things we don't measure.
How do we measure hope? Why don't we measure hope?
How do we measure purpose? Why don't we measure purpose?
How do we measure the quiet miracle of someone rebuilding a life? Why not?
Those questions stayed with me.
As I watched the public conversation around addiction evolve, I also noticed something else. The debate was becoming increasingly polarized. One side often spoke in terms of compassion. The other emphasized accountability. Yet somewhere in the middle, the voices of people who had actually rebuilt their lives through recovery seemed to be fading into the background.
I realized I didn't need to write another memoir.
I needed to ask difficult questions.
What happens when questioning policies rooted in compassion becomes unacceptable?
What happens when institutions become more concerned with defending policies than listening to lived experience?
What happens when science, politics, media, and public opinion all begin reinforcing one another until dissent becomes impossible?
The conversation feels increasingly tribal: harm reduction versus treatment, safe supply versus abstinence. I find myself wondering whether we have become so committed to choosing sides that we have stopped asking how different approaches might complement one another.
These aren't accusations.
They're questions.
Questions are where stories begin.
I didn't know it at the time, but those questions were leading me toward fiction.
I spent a long time developing characters who could explore those questions through their own lives. One scene, in particular, changed everything for me.
One of my protagonists is given the opportunity to question Canada's Chief Medical Officer at a public forum:
"What would you want if the person dying on the street were someone you loved?"
As I wrote the dialogue, I realized I wasn't just creating a fictional confrontation. I was creating a conversation that could never happen in real life. Fiction had given me permission to ask difficult questions without accusing real people or assigning motives. It allowed the ideas to stand on their own.
That was the moment I understood why this story had to be a novel.
That's why I chose to write 2084: The Neuroxone Conspiracy.
Although it's set in the future, it isn't really about the future.
It's about today.
Science fiction has always allowed writers to hold up a mirror to the present. George Orwell didn't write 1984 because he believed every detail would literally happen. Margaret Atwood drew upon practices and systems that had already existed when she wrote The Handmaid's Tale. Both used fiction to explore ideas that were already taking shape.
I wanted to do the same.
Creating fictional characters allowed me to place them inside ethical dilemmas without pointing fingers at real individuals. They could struggle, fail, change their minds, and challenge one another in ways that a nonfiction book never could.
Some readers will agree with my conclusions.
Others won't.
That's perfectly fine.
My goal isn't to tell people what to think.
My goal is to encourage people to think.
If readers finish 2084 asking themselves difficult questions, then the book has succeeded, regardless of whether they agree with me.
I've spent much of my journey believing that recovery is about more than stopping a harmful behavior. It is about becoming someone new. That transformation cannot always be captured in statistics, clinical trials, or government reports. It happens one conversation, one decision, and one relationship at a time.
Those human stories matter.
Sometimes they're best told as memoir.
Sometimes they're best explored through fiction.
And sometimes fiction is the only way left to tell the truth.
Thank you for reading.
If these conversations resonate with you, I invite you to join my Reader’s Circle at drlarrysmithauthor.com/readers-circle, where I explore recovery, resilience, human connection, and the experiences that shape our lives.