There is always an opposing view embedded in even the most straightforward of narratives. This is because a reader is aware of the limits of his own perception, and thus understands that for a subjective being to assert anything the denial of something else is a given. To sit down with intent to write fiction that is coherent, one has to anticipate what choices the reader will require justification for, and, like it or not, the reader will always, and immediately, demand justification for the smallest detail. This is not an unfair arrangement, given that the basis of the writer-reader relationship is that one subjective consciousness is attempting to communicate with another in a realm of make believe, and this is a realm proposed by only one of the two of them: the writer. Conflict within the script arises naturally out of the near-impossibility inherent to this task, and the whole narrative structure is an invention to reconcile this at a story’s end. The resolution is the moment of truth.