Fiction writing is about creating believable worlds even if they’re very different from our own. It’s about capturing the essence of what life is and recreating it. Even if we take readers to places they’ve never been, a dystopian future, a Victorian past, even another universe where characters walk on the ceiling, so long as the characters and their quests are relatable and the world you build obeys its own rules the reader will be there with you.
I tend to write about real life — but sometimes with an unusual skew and hence the psychic in While No One Was Watching.
This past week a new story has been coming to me. It’s one about body image and about the one thing I never thought I’d find myself writing about and that’s bodybuilding (wonder what inspired that, then?!!). I am no fan of the expression write what you know as it spawns writers writing about their own lives and in a way that’s what I’m doing, oh… but I know as it forms (it’s still seeking its shape at the moment) it will move away from what I know, stories always do that for me! But there is no doubt that the news stories and the things we see play out around us in our own lives seep into our writing. In Chutney there’s a lady who loses her husband and she becomes trapped in the moment he died; constantly staring at the same spot on the bathroom floor. It comes from something my neighbour said to be after her lovely husband died, only it was the kitchen floor. Thankfully she has no internet, let alone knows what a Blog is, so I know she won’t see this. If she reads the book (a possibility) she won’t see herself there as her story; a small connecting story in the novel, is about someone totally different, but what she said must have stuck and I guess when she reads that she will relate.
My new story takes someone who has lost his mother, but he is nothing like my real life hero — but he is trying to hold all the pieces together and seeks his escape and his way to cope through pain; but pain he controls in his home-made gym tearing down and rebuilding muscle, which he claims is better than cutting skin — like his eleven-year-old sister. This is no one I know, this is the strange world of fiction and the kind of people who walk across my mind and tell their stories. I have no idea where it’s heading but I hope it ends in a good place. But I do know it’s begging me to tell it like it is, so I am. Hey, I’m only the writer, the characters are the stars, and many I have never met yet.
So all I will say is: welcome to my crazy world, and isn’t it just wonderful.
That is all. Have a truly blessed day, whatever you do and whatever worlds you invade.