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.