It is possible that I took that whole “write what you know” thing a little too seriously in my creative writing courses. My fiction always seems to begin in real life. And the lines between what actually happens to me, here in the world, and what happens to my characters ... well, they get a little blurry. Today, I wrote a new scene for the manuscript I’m working on and it came directly from my real-life morning. Except not. Because my morning involved my husband and my three boys and my protagonist’s involved her husband and their one daughter. And I adore my family, probably to a fault (or at least at the expense of other things in my life), while she’s, um, a bit less enamored of her domestic life. Still, the house she lives in is almost exactly like mine. As is the car she drives and the school her child attends.
So, if you’ve ever been at all curious about the difference between my real life and my fiction, here’s a look.
Three weeks into the new year, I’m facing the realization that, having actually put the resolutions down in [digital] print, I should probably note my progress, or, lack thereof, on them. I am also noting that next year, I should probably just keep my big mouth shut on this topic.
I’m a big New Year’s resolver and I’ve actually had a reasonable amount of success with some of the resolutions of years past. 2012 was probably the highlight, when I resolved to finally lose the “baby weight”—the baby in question was, by then, two years old—and joined Weight Watchers. I eventually lost about 50 pounds on the program and really changed my lifestyle. I don’t know if 2015 will match that, but it’s worth a try.