Fiction

One of the things I struggle with as a writer is friends and family reading my work. If it’s fiction, they really don’t spend a lot of time reading personal things into it, but when it’s on a platform like this? UGH!

I cannot tell you how many times I have received e-mails, text messages, or phone calls that goes something like this: A- “Is this about me?”, with an attached link to something I’ve written. (It might be, but unless I’ve named names, you might not want to assume so much self-importance. Did you really print it so you could read it back to me?! Seriously?!!?) B- “Are you angry with me?” (Do I seem like the shy type?) C- “I don’t understand why you would write this…” (That’s why I’m a writer and you aren’t.) The best part is when they write to “advise me” on a situation I have written about that really doesn’t require a response. Unless I specifically ask for advice, chances are, I’m doing just fine with the thoughts in my head and don’t need mixed messages, but thanks for thinking of me. It is frustrating, to say the least.

I think the most profound thing anyone can say to me, which happened this past weekend, is “I am so proud of you.” For someone to acknowledge how I have grown in my talent and how I am not hesitant to tackle difficult subjects that make other people uncomfortable is something I value and respect. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it is sincerely appreciated. (Hugs Aunt L.)

I generalize a lot of what I write because too many people assume it’s about them, when the truth is, it could be about anyone in the world. Most of the time someone will stumble upon something I have written, leave a comment about their own experiences on the subject, I will respond in kind, and dialogue is born. It’s one of the reasons you write; To have other people read your work, understand it, relate to it, remember it, share it, etc. It’s not meant for me to throw random shit at anyone, it’s meant to be thought-provoking, and often times it is therapeutic, as the writer, for me to write things out of my system. If I didn’t, I’d have murdered someone by now. So thank you Mom, for realizing I was a writer and encouraging me to be what I am today. It is far better than what I ever imagined it could be. I wish you were here for all of this, because I think now, I understand what your vision for me really was.

For most of my years as a writer, I covered facts, life, death, grief, women’s issues, and sports. That’s what makes up the majority of my portfolio. I can revert back to any of those things on a dime, and tackle a subject quite competently. I do go out of my comfort zone at times to really challenge myself, but I also know what I’m good at. There is a way, no matter what genre you write in, to still adhere to your values and be yourself.

I would rather be myself and not make any apologies for it, than be spoon-feeding my readers bullshit on gilt plates. But hey, that’s me, and I refuse to apologize for doing something that is not wrong.

Very few people know this about me, but I was once a Journalism Major. I had a double major (Journalism & Creative Writing) and a double minor (Writing For Television & Languages). I was constantly writing something at the time, and I still have a lot of my notebooks even though I have since moved five times.

My “Writing For Television” professor hated me, I am convinced of this. He would show us cinematic films and ask us to write our take on each one. I had some unhappy things going on in my life at the time, so I openly admit to sleeping through most of a semester. In fairness, he was showing us a lot of crap. Until one day, he brought out the Brian de Palma film that would change my life. It is, almost certainly, one of the reasons I am still a writer all these years later.

I wrote about this film’s mastery like nobody’s business. I worked my ass off. And as a reward, the professor gave me a failing grade on the paper and told me I “was ruining the other students’ work with my subject matter, had no writing talent whatsoever, and would NEVER be a published writer.” He wanted to know how I managed to get into the class in the first place. I laughed in his face, and walked out of the room smiling. This reaction baffled him, he had a terrible superiority complex. Little did he know, I was already being published, I just didn’t advertise it. I wasn’t allowed to return to the class, but that film still brings me back to why I write, and a lot of what I want to accomplish with my writing. When I write fiction, it plays out like a movie inside my head. If I can’t see it, it’s not going to work on paper.

My Creative Writing class had a similar outcome, except that this professor liked me. She liked that I wasn’t writing the same things everyone else was, that I always thought outside the box, but in the end, she too, failed me. She said I was a brilliant writer, but that she didn’t like that I was too busy writing in class to bother to take notes. Yes, that was her issue and that was why I failed. What’s the point of being creative when all a person wants you to do is take notes and study them? How is that embracing your talent?!

I slept through “Historical Writing”, but the professor was kind enough to let me make up for it by working for her a few days a week as an assistant.

Months later, I became very sick and left the program. However, I never stopped writing.

From those days to present, my work has changed drastically. Originally I wrote hardcore facts and opinions. I tackled life, death, sports, drug addiction, women’s issues, health, and grief. I didn’t venture too far out of that until 2006 when I became inspired by a particular type of fiction. Even then, it took me an additional four years before I’d sit down and try it for myself.

I still consider myself a writer of facts, and I still consider myself the same “balls to the wall” kind of writer I’ve always been, but with fiction, I find myself healing. It might seem like an odd concept, but there is a great deal of my soul in my work.

The main protagonist for the dark urban fantasy series which has some interesting historical fiction in the mix, is very loosely based off of myself. The premise of the story dates back to a story I heard repeatedly about my family as a child. I come from a multi-lingual, multi-cultural family. I don’t think any of the adults realized I understood them when they’d speak in front of me (even in English, they had a tendency to ignore the presence of children, not realizing that children comprehend far more than anyone ever realizes.), but when I did some of the original research for the story, I came to find that it wasn’t an old wives’ tale. Naturally, I embellished some of it because hey, it is fiction, and I changed many things, but I also made sure to weave a lot of truth in there as well. If you don’t know me really well, you won’t know the difference, but for me, it is freeing, enjoyable, and a happy place to visit. I like the world I’ve created. I look forward to bringing it to you when the time is right. 🙂