As the title may suggest, I am reflecting on being a writer. More specifically, a fictional writer … or rather, a writer who writes fiction … not really sure if that all goes together …
But yes, I write stories. Some are short. Some are long. All are, thus far, unpublished and only read by a handful of Beta readers that include a few close friends, my mother and when they feel forced to, my little sisters. I think I have been writing stories since I could write. My favourite class in elementary school was Creative Writing (until budget cuts landed us without a CW class, and lumped it into “Language Arts” of which, there was not much art).
My first school mandated story was supposed to be about the meaning of Christmas (I went to a Catholic school, of course). I wrote a thriller whereby Santa was kidnapped by snow monsters and Mrs. Clause went all commando on everyone until she found her husband (who at this point, liked his captors, since I apparently believed in Stokholm syndrome as an applicable plot device at the age of 6) and saved Christmas single handedly.
My next story, in grade two, was supposed to be a Halloween story. I wrote about a witch who had to solve the mystery of this creepy ghost that haunted the neighbourhood.
So, from an early age you can see that (1) I liked to write stories, (2) I am a little morbid, (3) I was born a strident feminist, and (4) I had a strange imagination …
Funnily enough, I am still all of those things … but now I have a lot more people willing to back me up on it!
I have written stories about teenaged star crossed lovers, werewolves fighting themselves for a place in this world, witches who guard the secrets to humanity, a group of girls who find peculiar magic at their boarding school, and recently a slew of short stories under the romance and horror genres.
I am pretty happy with the bulk of my work. Sure there are lots of things I want to tweak here and there, and one day, with enough patience and fortitude … or financial incentive … I will. For now, I am content to “trunk” those stories and focus on the new ones that invade my mind.
Which brings me to this.
A couple of years ago I flirted with the idea of writing a semi-autobiographical novel. That is, a fictional work deeply based on my own life. I feel like everyone has a story to share, and so it follows that so do I. At the same time … should I?
The question is how far to go. Your story can never be PC enough for everyone. Even if you change the names and encode identities under flowery sentences, there is always the risk that someone you love will read it, realize it’s them and then be offended.
I am struggling with this because, in part, I am seriously considering it. But I don’t want to hurt anyone I love. And I feel like I could. And I am not sure I want to risk that.
Signing off from deep within the wormhole.