My Years of Make-Believe

When I wrote fiction, I tried to make the characters people, not just characters. I wanted there to be some parallel universe where these people existed. Some universe where life was something else other than what I was experiencing. Where I could edge and influence these people on to paths that made sense in my own mind. I could never do that with the people in my own life. Usually, I had little control of even myself. Writing fiction gave me power over whole worlds.

I never intended on writing characters that were “autobiographical.” When fiction writers write, readers — especially writer readers like to dissect these new people, born of ink, or graphite, or the font software on the computer. It used to be that non-fiction was hard. I wanted to hide from reality. I had enough of real life when I was living it. If I saw myself in the characters I created, it was long after they had been created and fleshed out. Long after I had loved and tweaked all the inside fluff, and realized that my own blood, sweat, and tears were trapped inside.

It’s My Turn, My Friends

I miss fiction. I miss telling stories, creating new lives and worlds. I want it back badly, and I believe I will get there, eventually. I will hear voices in the shadows, in the secret hiding places, and the ones standing in the driveway screaming for me to tell their stories. When I do, I will have to serve them. For now, I’m poking my readers with my own pencils. I am declaring my own journey important and worthy. I am discovering an unchartered facet of my own voice.

When I wrote fiction on a regular basis it was an escape that I needed in my life. Right now, I’m at a place where I am trying to face as much head on as I can, and I am looking for “the truth” to set me free, one kernel at a time.