Writers are often asked (or bullied into confessions) whether real-life events end up in their fiction writing—if their fiction is actually based on true stories. In many cases, my personal answer to this is ‘I sincerely hope not.’ Can you imagine the horror of Stephen King’s daily life if that were true? Instead of being based on true stories, fiction is an abstract projection of truth, or as Mr King puts it, it is: “the truth inside the lie.”
In every story, no matter how exciting or fast-paced or fantastical the plot is, as readers, we relate to the characters. If a character is a likeable dude on a noble life quest, we automatically begin to root for him. If a character is unspeakably evil, we immediately loathe them. If they’re somewhere in between (and most people are), or if they’re an anti-hero, like Severus Snape from Harry Potter, or the anti-villain like Rumplestiltskin / Mr Gold from Once Upon a Time—we feel a kind of kinship with their struggle. We experience and resonate with their conflict on a moral level; it speaks to something within us all—the complexity of the human psyche and life itself.
This is where truth comes in.
It doesn’t matter if we’re writing or reading (or watching) a character struggling with the mundane day-to-day routine of a job he hates or battling a terminal illness or one who is about to take on a fifty-foot dragon… what it all boils down to is a resonance with universal emotion and an observation.
It’s a human connection with what we witness.
I’ve never fought a dragon before, but I can recall a time when I felt so scared I could barely breathe or a time when I had to attempt something for the sake of someone else—nothing life-threatening like a living, breathing dragon, of course, but something which created a feeling immense enough to either paralyse me or summon courage.
Fear and awe are emotions and experiences most of us are familiar with, and they’re just two of many. Writers often take feelings, memories (even if these memories are not personal), and amplify them, bestowing the character with a whopping great sword, a wand, and/or a pair of figurative balls the size of Pangea (and more recently, genderless equivalents even within the fantasy genre), and—boom! A character is born, equipped to conquer adversity. And while the action is fun and exciting, when we witness this as readers or viewers, the part we relate to is the fear, the adrenaline, the sheer wonder of the scaly beast of adversity and whether or not it can be conquered and how.
…
Literature is open to interpretation. There is beauty and wonder in that, but there also comes a point, particularly if an author becomes targeted, in which misinterpretation can disrupt lives.
This targeting is something I’ve personally experienced despite very little visibility or ‘success’ but largely due to my small island community origins. Considering other authors who have been targeted in multiple ways, it’s clear that this is more of an issue for female authors than male. Males, having been published more than females and generally, having the luxury of misunderstanding running its course in a patriarchal world, seem to also have the luxury of exploring themes, even taboo themes, without as much personal scrutiny or fallout/backlash as their female counterparts, even when their counterparts (women) are naming issues that deserve awareness even in abstract.
Too often, in an attempt to ‘hear’ women authors, the abstract is taken literally, and this is counterproductive to equal free speech. The abstract is not to be confused with facts within the authors’ lives. The categorisation as fiction should offer protection here, and yet it doesn’t. Could it be that any work from a female is taken more literally because the assumption that oppression gives rise to biographical writing surpasses the choice of the author to accurately categorise their work?
It’s interesting that instead of viewing the material abstractly, others mistakenly and repeatedly zero in on the individual’s private life and outlook when, actually, the themes, views, and experiences explored are often prevalent enough in general society to warrant due attention there in safe and respectful ways. Viewpoints of fictional characters are not necessarily shared by the author themselves. A fictional work documents elements within a contained format and categorises on publication accordingly. That categorisation deserves respect and consideration.
For the sake of clarity here, let’s say—for instance—any or every author was given such little consideration of basic rights and free speech and was subjected to the level of scrutiny and analysis I personally endured, there’d be mayhem. When I think of other authors, or rather, more significantly, other books I have read, I don’t immediately assume that the author who writes about a husband who commits murder actually lives with a murdering spouse or that the author who writes about a teenager being kidnapped and developing Stockholm Syndrome is someone who literally lived this or committed this. I don’t immediately assume that the prolific Mr King has actually seen blood bubble in his sink or followed clowns into storm drains.
Having said that, it would seem that by giving attention to those who cast their distorted speculation into my life with glaring intensity, I (figuratively, abstractly) followed clowns into storm drains and nearly drowned in the process. For those who find the mystery of imagination terrifying rather than fascinating or illuminating, it is somewhat understandable that they might give more weight to fact or the potential for it, but I’m urged to remind readers that a book is categorised for clarity; fact and fiction should not be confused, even when drawn conclusions seem to align with details of an author’s life. Conclusions borne of speculation (and attempts to gain confirmation of speculation) violate an individual’s rights, including privacy, and in these events, a violation will be handled as a violation and nothing less.
Anything published as a fictional work should be taken as such. If it is not to a reader’s taste, there is ample literature available as an alternative. A fictional work is not an open invitation to psychoanalyse the author, and it is not permission to delve into the author’s private life. Psychoanalysis of an author using characters from a fictional work is going to provide a distorted view for the simple reason that fiction contains characters, and these characters are imagined manifestations rather than actual manifestations. Without consideration for that distinction, any analysis is going to provide a skewed basis at best, and at worst? Let’s not think about that particular type of irresponsibility; let’s instead hope that going forward, people have more sense and consideration (I’m an optimist at my core), and securing myself in the careful categorisation of anything I write for publication.
It might be argued that consideration was not given to the interpretation of the fiction I’ve written but this is not true. If we censor ourselves out of fear of misinterpretation, very little literature would exist, and there is something to be said for the tried and tested medium of literature itself.
As humans, we lean into self-expression. Literature is one such way.
While exploring the ways in which truth is interwoven into fictional work, I’ve noticed another distinction: a truth can generally exist in literature even though it is not amassed of facts. This liminality gives rise to unease, but it is also where insight occurs. The grey area provides a muted slate of sorts so that illumination can occur where it is needed. What comes into focus, what is brought forth in colour, is usually an indication of something within ourselves and our lives. A redirection or deflection into what it meant for the author who simply (and often humbly) began the process of illumination (however indirectly) is nothing but a distraction. When I say this, I’m writing mostly as a reader, as someone who has repeatedly had light shed upon a dark corner through the written word.
For the insatiably curious and/or those who want to understand a little more about my writing process or know more about my character creation and development, here it is:
In my books, horror shows up in (mostly) subtle ways. I find realism more terrifying than any imagined monster. I want my fiction to portray this, and I do this through characters and the events within their lives.
Blood’s Veil is a fictional work. The characters are entirely fictional. My life experiences, whether through real events, literature, or film, have all aided me in creating her and her story. I’ve lived with the crippling aftermath of sexual abuse, and I’m no stranger to depression, addiction, or having been conditioned to suppress emotions—and the inopportune misfortune of overflow. Some of this seeps into my fiction writing, but it’s organic only in essence; the remainder creates links between empathy and imagination. I draw on this inner source of ‘inspiration’ (read: pain) if the story requires it rather than setting out to write what would essentially be a memoir.
Hank (spoiler: the perpetrator of the story) is not a cover-up for anyone in real life. He is just a character I created, a mix of traits and features and backstory: his piercing blue eyes were not meant to cover up brown ones but to portray how mesmerising it can be to gaze into someone’s eyes as they assess to utilise for their own ends, to emphasise how someone can render you naked with only a look but how these things go unnoticed by those who look into those same eyes the way Ella did—with innocence and trust.
The book is about a relationship that masks horror within any family. Not mine (or rather not just mine), and any horror within mine is mild by comparison. The horror in my real life existed outside of my family. My family has held me together while I threatened to involuntarily fall apart. Trying to pin down that horror at the insistence of others laid blame at the family doorstep, and those same insistent folk insist that I put it there myself. Once again, the distinction is this: fiction vs fact. The irresponsibility rests on the shoulders of those who ignore one for the other.
Writing any of my characters allows me to express a tiny fraction of my experience while maintaining emotional distance. It lets me explore directions and themes most of us cannot and would not in real life. This is especially true in my second book, Immisceo Taken, a fantasy series. There’s adventure and magic, it’s set in a fictional setting and a bygone time, and this is all imagination’s product, but emotionally and relationally, there’s relatability.
Once again, when I write I dig into the pain I carry. While I can feel the way I do, the way I express it on the page through the characters can vary depending on who the character is. It opens up a wider channel to express my emotions in a way I might not dare to in real life, and it allows me a certain safety to be able to maintain careful distance by examining it from the points of view of these different characters within my stories. It’s also fascinating to explore these different viewpoints because it creates awareness in how a character might channel or suppress an emotion. Despite our differences, human emotion is relatively the same across the board. It is our make-up that can change how we cope—our environment, experience, and our trauma can change how we process and express them, and it’s interesting to see how this affects the story: even a heavily outlined plot.
If you’ve ever heard a writer say something like: the character tells the story… this is likely what they’re referring to. It’s about staying true to who the character is even if you know that’s not how you’d handle it yourself or not how another character in the same story would handle it.
There are at least four main characters in my fantasy series whose points of view are portrayed at different points throughout. How they experience any single event creates tangents that can be woven into the story, whether it diverts from the main plot line or not. It keeps the narrative true to each character. They might have a shared experience, but just like real life, their experience of it is going to be unique to them, and what they take away from that and how it informs their future is going to be different, based on who they are as a character. That is infinitely less about me as the author and more about the characters I’ve created.
How a character responds despite (or because of) emotion sets events in motion (it creates tangents, as mentioned). Knowing each character both at their core and their outward projection then informs how they might respond. Under stress, they might respond out of character. (On a bad writing day, they might respond so far out of character that when editing later, I get to pick it all apart and restart.) After a while, it becomes easier to really listen to the character, to pay attention to who would truly respond in the ways they do, and this is where the magic is: it’s in these moments that characters feel real, separate from the self in a healthy way, walking through a separate world through a tried and tested medium: the page.
For instance, in Immisceo, there’s Garrett, a protector, but also an antagonist. He’s morally grey. Regardless of what happens, his takeaway from any situation is buried beneath pragmatism and loyalty to someone who is ruthless but coupled and conflicted with inherent loyalty to protect his brother. His brother, less pragmatic, more free-spirited but naive, strives for independence while being unable to disentangle himself from those he cares about. How they cope with a situation is very different than Luciana, who is more emotionally led, proactive, seemingly impulsive, and (sometimes, problematically) independent. Amara, too, is also emotionally led, but her moral compass is far more skewed than Luciana’s. Amara seems to be led by self-preservation, but she is driven by a deeper, hidden cause of advocacy, but some of the things she does for this cause are unspeakable.
The magic system in my fiction shares similarities with other fictional magic systems, but in this system, the magic is often emotion itself or the manifestation of one. There are uncomfortable parallels that can be drawn between the real world and my fictional one in that some people have access to a specific type of magic and some don’t, and some of them, who would have had access to both types, have suffered because of segregation. I have my own working theory about these things, even in its semi-formed state. I think to outline too much of it would be a spoiler, and it would touch on a subject most people are not open to discussing.
These are things that occur off the page in one way or another. Thankfully, there are systems in place, but these systems do not always prevent or protect. It is kind of interesting to explore these themes, if only to understand, for instance: why does a person kill? Under what circumstances does a person succumb to that specific weakness or override morality enough to take a life?
There is an element of fascination (and indulgence) to give myself freedom to explore these themes. For instance: what might a person do if basic social constructs ceased to exist or existed in a wholly different way, or existed only as they once did, and where is evolution really taking us? That’s not to say I don’t want these constructs or that I do not conform willingly to most of them (that would scare the living daylights out of me — if there were no repercussions for actions, there’d be chaos. What is interesting to me specifically is to also explore the emotional and relational repercussions of such an action, not just the act itself but the aftermath.
In this way, the general truth within this fictional series is the cost of our actions.
Whether fictional or factual, our actions cost us. Exploring through fiction, the ways in which they do, the costs that cannot always be balanced no matter how we try, creates awareness and empathy that might be unreachable if not for the medium fiction provides.
So, how often is truth found in fiction? My answer is: always.
There is a truth at the centre of a fictional work waiting to be found, interpreted, and applied where possible. Human emotion and experience, and everything that makes a story relatable provides us with a connection far beyond the reach of our ever-shrinking social circles, a connection so diverse that we get to experience lives outside of our norm rendering us more accepting to what might be normal for another, all the while testing our sense of morality. What is good? What is not okay? What helps us decide?
The rest is a wondrous product of the imagination.
Happily ever after?
Imagination.
But also… hope.
