We often think of masks, costumes, and other theatrical devices as concealing, but as Oscar Wilde reminds us, “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” Now recall the last Halloween costume you gleefully chose and wore. Is Wilde correct?

One of the greatest satisfactions of the theater must be the opportunity to be simultaneously the self and more than the self: the true self, displayed and yet safely bulwarked behind the costume and the role, so we may later defang whatever secrets we’ve revealed by saying, “Oh, that wasn’t me, that was Hamlet/Little Nell/the Big Bad Wolf,” whoever. And whatever damage we’ve caused, light we’ve shed, hearts we’ve broken, lies — or truths — that we have told…not me, but the Wolf. Not me, but that irresponsible creature speaking the playwright’s words: she’s the one who frightened you, he’s the one who made you melt. And with puppets involved, the mask is doubled.

For a novelist, fiction is the mask. Not me, but my characters. Not me, but the words. It’s all make-believe, all the passion, the danger, and the louche, irresistible puppets…right? The pleasure, though — the pleasure is always real.