Every true apprentice writer has, however he may try to keep it secret even from himself, only one major goal: glory. The shoddy writer wants only publication.

"Glory? Nonsense," my friend said. We were sitting at an outdoor cafe. I shifted in my seat. She had actually written books; I hadn't.

"But it's an interesting idea, isn't it?" I said. "Not personal glory, but trying to do the best you can as a writer, to produce art."

"It's too black and white, though. You're either trying to be Shakespeare, or you're a shoddy writer. What about all the space in between?"

"Okay..."

"And it's a terrible 'no true Scotsman' argument. True writers do X, and if you don't, then you're not a true writer. Do you really think that you can say what's deep in the heart of all 'true' writers? You don't even know why I write."

"You're right." I stood up and stretched. "I'll be right back."

(I've made most of this up. It's based on a real conversation, but I've added a discussion that didn't really happen.)

 Certain accomplished novelists have a habit of giving themselves away which must often bring tears to the eyes of people who take their fiction seriously. I was lately struck, in reading over many pages of Anthony Trollope, with his want of discretion in this particular. In a digression, a parenthesis or an aside, he concedes to the reader that he and this trusting friend are only "making believe." He admits that the events he narrates have not really happened, and that he can give his narrative any turn the reader may like best. Such a betrayal of a sacred office seems to me, I confess, a terrible crime...

Fortunately for me (and probably for you as well), I'm not a fiction writer, much less an accomplished novelist. But crimes of writing are less than victim-less; they're not always crimes. Some of my favorite writing is in the genre of magical realism (Italo Calvino, Jorge Luis Borges, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Kazuo Ishiguro, Haruki Murakami...) There's a pleasure in being challenged by a good short story or novel, occasionally being caught short. Even in traditional literature, say, in social novels, it can deepen a reader's appreciation to read at different levels: What's happening in the story? And how is the writer telling us what's happening?

I've just written a non-fiction, popular science manuscript that's now in the hands of my editor at Oxford. (Metaphorically, at least. Manuscript comes from the Latin "written by hand", but I could have dictated the words to my laptop--no hands or even literal writing involved--and I presume that the work will be read on a computer screen.) My book contains some elements of fiction, in that I've included made-up stories as analogies for the scientific and engineering concepts I've described. It's a balancing act. Stories draw readers in. How much should a fictional story draw a reader into a work of non-fiction, though? Too little, and the concepts that follow may not be enough to sustain interest. Too much, and the story will set up false expectations.

Jane Austen's opening is classic: lucid, measured, objective, with ironic implication concealed beneath the elegant velvet glove of the style. How subtly the first sentence sets up the heroine for a fall. 

Openings are hard. In a novel, the writer can introduce characters and perhaps suggest what will eventually happen. In non-fiction, it's a bit different: I've begun with a very personal, first-person opening that suggests who I am, what I do, and what I'll be writing about. I've included a bit of humor (assuming that it works), hoping that readers will find the first paragraph engaging enough to continue. We'll see how well it works.

The quoted passages are from John Gardner's The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers (1983), Henry James's The Art of Fiction (1884), and David Lodge's The Art of Fiction, Illustrated from Classic and Modern Texts (1994).