Nice," said Abigail. "Very plausible."
"Yeah, but just because it's plausible doesn't mean it's true.

"Some stories," she says, "can be both false and true at the same time."

Not at first. She was against new things. She thought I would never be successful, and that was wrong, she was wrong. Later she started to believe that I could maybe be somebody. But it was always a big maybe. To her, the life that I wanted, it was all a dream. And she didn’t believe in dreams.

She says he says, but she could be lying to me, and he could be lying to her, so I can’t believe her, even if I could believe her.

So maybe it wasn't the fairy tale. But those stories weren't real anyway. Mine were.

"At least," Mother said, "that's the story Aunt Esther tells."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Isn't it true?"
"Stories are never 'true'," Mother said. "But they may, almost by accident, contain 'truth'. Sometimes."

There was part of me listening that didn't think what I said was fiction. I was making up a true story.

Then I guess the story is a lie

Reality is not always probable, or likely. But if you're writing a story, you have to make it as plausible as you can, because if not, the reader's imagination will reject it.

Deep feeling sounded in her voice. I had no doubt that the feeling was partly sincere. Still, there was something unreal about it. I suspected that she'd been playing tricks with her emotions for a long time, until none of them was quite valid.

It was unbelievable, but perhaps only the unbelievable could be believed. Perhaps the truth was always a lie.

My own story is like a fairy tale nobody would believe because it's exactly what you expect but it never happened.

It was unbelievable, but perhaps only the unbelievable could be believed. Perhaps the truth was always a lie. Perhaps,

A man well-known to be a liar had just told a most improbable story. “Sir, while I believe you,” someone said, “you must admit that it's very wrong of truth not to condescend to be more plausible.”