Everyone who writes writes fiction.
The world is never as it seems, and never as it is seen, and is never understood completely if at all. Memory is porous; fantasy and aspiration, fear and yearning all leak in like oil through a cloth.
Each word is a condition of reality that reality itself doesn’t experience. Each thought is a Lilliputian clockwork model of something infinite. No conception of the world contains its most vital features, only a spray of evanescent impressions. Not only is the map not the territory, the territory isn’t even mappable.
Partitions of truth to certain realms where it applies seems most reasonable. There might be some absolute reality but each demesne contains its own quasi-reality just as incommensurate with one another as the truth of an electron vs. the truth of a redwood.
Even more than my first point, everyone who sees “reality” writes a fiction of it, remembers it and then re-writes it again in recall.
It’s a miracle that any of this is possible, even in principle.