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Fiction is lies; we're writing about people who never existed and events that never happened when we write fiction, whether its science fiction or fantasy or western mystery stories or so-called literary stories. All those things are essentially untrue. But it has to have a truth at the core of it. ~~George R. R. Martin
Contrary to all those times you've heard a writer confess at a reading that he writes fiction because he is a pathological liar, fiction writing is all about telling the truth. ~~Paul Harding
In fiction, plenty do the job of conveying information, rousing suspense, painting characters, enabling them to speak. But only certain sentences breathe and shift about, like live matter in soil. ~~Jhumpa Lahiri
Life is always going to be stranger than fiction, because fiction has to be convincing, and life doesn't.~~ Neil Gaiman
The thing that most attracts me to historical fiction is taking the factual record as far as it is known, using that as scaffolding, and then letting imagination build the structure that fills in those things we can never find out for sure. ~~Geraldine Brooks
The detail adds an element of unexpected something. All fiction is false; what makes it convincing is that it runs alongside the truth. The real world has lots of incidental details, so a painting also has to have that element of imperfection and irregularity, those incidental details. ~~Shaun Tan
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Our lives are made up of a collection of 'stuff.' Memories, exhilarating highs, tragic deaths, messy moments and tranquil sunsets. As writers, we can take from these happenings, we can mine them for emotions that we can then use when we write - for our words and actions we impart to our characters need, indeed, must have that element of reality to become living and breathing.
When we lose a parent or a child, the immediate aftermath is a devastating, all consuming pain. Saying to use those emotions, pain and angst in writing does not, in any way, negate it, but it can and does add a level of truth if we can eventually use it in our work. I try hard to look at the messy moments, the scary times, the nauseating, stomach churning minutes as research. It actually helps deal with the reality of the moment to look at it that way as it gives a bit of a cushion in the there and then and allows for a bit of positivity when otherwise I am overwhelmed and mid-panic! It allows for a slight side-step and makes the reality of dealing with what-ever it is just a wee bit easier.
I have done years of research for the book series I am three books into on suicide. I've been told I nailed characters reactions, thoughts, responses, feelings in those moments. People have said that I had to have experienced attempting to commit suicide to be able to portray that and all the 'stuff' that surrounds it. I have not. The closest I have come is to have had to deal with it firsthand, was waking the blue and red flashing lights as police hammer at the door and burst in saying that they got a call that so and so had tried to kill themselves.
The moments of sheer panic as you race to their room to discover a passed out person and a pool of blood on the floor. The questions that race unanswered through one's mind as you replay every monment of a preceeding day looking for missed clues. The flurry of questions you are asked as you try to wrap your sleep-grogged brain about what just happened and will they be okay and who do I need to call while hanging on to your other half for dear life. Guilt swamps as you ponder if anything you did led to this, if you missed some vital sign, if there was anything you could have done. No, in those moments no one is thinking research, but in the aftermath, knowing that this is something that may be used, learned from and survived helps balance emotions that are all over the place. Until you have clean up a pool of coalgulating blood, you can't know how it looks, smears and smells. Several cops all shouting questions at you simultaneously, trying to get a sleep-meds fogged brain to function. Desperately (if weirdly) craving a cup of coffee. Pushing panic down to my bare feet. Looking back; these are things - moments - menmories that, as a writier, I can and will use at some point.
The unending screech of metal along metal, the sudden, all-encompassing seconds of absolute silence after the crash and sudden non-movement. Shock. The inventory of parts, people in the vehicle. The 'What just happened?' questions. Finding glasses flung from exploding airbag. The way the powder from it is in your mouth, your nose, your eyes. Sirens, shouting. Hearing the cell ringing but unable to move because your brain seems disconnected from your body. Seeing blood dripping down your daughter's face. Smelling gasoline and knowing, KNOWING you need to move, now ... but the door won't open and your feet and knees are jammed somehow under the dashboard.
We were fine, the car was toast, the other guy never knew what had happened, he'd died from a heart attack mere seconds befor he barreled through a red light at an intersection. Bruises faded, I drove the new car -- took a while for the nerves to settle. Lived the crash for months in my dreams until, finally, they faded to some back corner of my brain.
The ground beneath your feet jumping, wobbling, dropping only to shift upwards rapidly. The sounds of rock exploding. Some liken it to a roaring train. To me, that is more like a tornatdo. Earthquakes moan and groan - cemetary scene where the dead come back to life; more like that. Glass shattering, raining down, cutting, slashing, impaling. Cars zig-zagging, uncontrolled on a road that ripples and rolls in waves crashing ashore in a storm. Masonry thudding to the ground, sounds like far off fireworks during the finale. Noise, unrelenting noise crashing all round you until an eerie silence descends for a moment, broken by by blaring car horns stuck on 'blare,' the waterfall of exploded hydrants and watermains, the screaming of people who seem to be able to do nothing but scream, whether they are hurt or not.
Wind battering ancient stone walls of a centuries old sugar mill on St. Croix. Hard, slamming, roaring wind forcing its way through minute cracks to whistle in high-pitched squeals that hurt your ears. Dust and pebblings falling from above as the winds try to erase this sugar mill from 1728. Fine spray blows in and the wonder in the night if the waters will rise this high. They did in 1903; they may again say the unruffled islander grandparents who heard tell of 'that' storm from their parents. No panic, they sat on lawnchairs, a toddler asleep in each lap as grandma knit in the dim flickering light of a dying battery-powered lamp. Unconcerned, her fingers knit stories in the dark, howling night.
The almost sweet, intense pain as a bone snaps, the flood of liquid pain as it races across and down your ribs, the warm flood as blood flows from where the bone broke the skin. No stench, that coppery smell you can taste with flowing blood[ that comes later as it cools, thickens. Movement when adreniline kicks in and flight overcomes mere pain. 'Got to get away, got to hide. Got to run. Don't let him catch you.' Fear masks agony, pushing it under the thudding of your heart. No breath to scream or even talk, hoping the person you found can look, see and get it. Can help. Now, before it's too late.
In those moments, I certain was not thinking about writing anything. i could barely think.But later, later on when dealing with the aftermath, when therapists suggested writing my way through it, I realized that far beyond the writing down the events, looking at it as research gave a layer, a filtering layer, a shred of positivity that something positive could come forth. And it has. Does.
More, i have come to apply it everyday happenstances whether the turtle-paced car ahead of me when I'm late, the misdelivered package, the missed flight, the busted waterpipe or the two-liter of pop slipping to explode on the kitchen floor. Why? because life is not all daisies and lilting music. It is messy and bloody, frustrating, scary and completely unpredictable. Murphy reigns supreme and can be a writer's best friend rather than an enemy. Doesn't fix all the terrible stuff, doesn't make it go away, but it can add a layer of reality to our writing, an added dimension to draw a reader in.
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Quick-Quill  writes: 'A woman he'd loved to have known.' This is what we want our characters to feel like; which, of course, is the purpose of this piece. It is important to grab hold of your reader and let them know your characters so they can feel emotions connected to them. Make your characters live and breathe!
You summed up this newsletter to a T. You shared with us the woman you knew. Also the man she loved and who loved her. I couldn't have been easy to part with some of these things that made her his wife. I read between the lines. Not only did he not share her love of "collecting" the myriad of multiples, he felt sharing the "overflow" with you and others was sharing that quirky woman he loved. I know that those who are gifted or purchase mementos of this woman will be enriched.
🎼 RRodgersWrites 🎶  says: Thank you for this beautiful memoir. I believe you made each of your readers fall in love with the eccentric and amazing Kathy. As you describe "her world", it comes alive. Your recounting of this exploration makes me want to walk through the 'narrow paths' along with you tomorrow and experience it together.
Also, I truly appreciate your use of imagery and creative word choice. I could see their intriguing home and the plates along the walls. (In fact, I think I'd like to stay awhile and write with that ever-changing mesmerizing view.) Here were some of my personal favorites: "part Bohemian, part hippy, part collector and all heart" - "part museum, part library, part hodgepodge and full of whimsey, cats, books and tons of 'stuff!'" - "tossing rainbows on the ceiling" - " it looked like a rainbow had exploded!" - "(jokingly) afraid they would breed! ... other designs, we were pretty sure they had!" - "like stepping into Sheherazod's boudoir" - "she SO will surface in a book down the road" - "unapologetically excited to embark"
With just a little work on the punctuation, this fun reflection would be a dream to read, experience, and share!
Thanks again for sharing it!
Paul  said: Hi, What a wonderful story. You've painted the picture of a fastenating woman I'd have loved to known. What a bright and open person you describe. Thank you or sharing your words and memories.
Thanks to this writer whose words I quickly incorporated into my newsletter!!!
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For Authors: July 25, 2018 Issue [#9020]
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