The real Tony tells you a lie.
The real Tony tells you a truth.
The real Tony doesn't know why;
He's done it since he was a youth.
It's not that he wants to confuse you;
It's not that he wants to evade.
It's not that he wants just to use you,
But from lemons he makes lemonade.
When he tells you a lie, you are happy.
When he tells you the truth, then you weep.
He tells truth *and* lies, harsh and sappy;
Which is which? That's a secret he'll keep.
NOTE: I originally posted this in response to a comment by Laura Eno. However, I decided that it was a decent statement of what it means to write fiction, and deserved a more central restatement.