Writing fiction: in which the writer attempts to get over it
Amazingly, it took just one sentence to discover what my mental block is; why I have such a hard time writing fiction, and why so many attempts have been thrown into a folder on my computer named “Corey Writing,” a folder that would be freely overflowing if not for the constraints of Windows’ animation.
The sentence isn’t important. I’ve already forgotten it.
But as I wrote it, I kept thinking, “What if people read into this and think it’s about me? What if people think that this character represents something or someone in my life?”
And JUST LIKE THAT. Everything made sense.
My mind has yet to get over the idea that I don’t have to write from experience. That I can enter another world and create characters that aren’t like any characters I’ve met in real life. My mind hasn’t quite grasped that, if I write about a vicious mother-in-law, or a disruptive wife, or a jaded co-worker in search for some kind of vindictive revenge, the real mother-in-law and wife and co-workers in my life aren’t automatically going to see themselves.
They aren’t going to question my allegiance. They aren’t going to ask what I meant. They’re going to read it and understand, like all adults understand, like all normal, rational people understand.
And by addressing this, maybe I’m telling myself to get over it.