Yes, guilty as charged. I’m an unreliable narrator. I cheat. I lie. I pretend to be writing the truth when the actual truth is little more than a peg on which to hang the fiction. But on the other hand isn’t that what fiction is about?
I prefer to call it mining experience, twisting actuality to suit my narrative, delving into my past for inspiration, using it to serve my purpose. And if my imagination is able to soar as a result, the past has done its job.
OK, this is disingenuous. Guilty again, but where else can I get my inspiration from? I fear I have a creative deficit, that without my past I wouldn’t be able to invent in the first place. Maybe that’s why it has taken me so long to write my first book with its mix of truth and fiction. My aim throughout has been to make the nexus as seamless as possible, but I accept that can be confusing to the reader. To be honest it’s confusing for me as well, but in a good way. I’ve been able to review some of my history, and turn it into a product – 210 pages enfolded in a striking cover that stands out on bookshelves, saying Read Me.
So do, please, read Stalker. If you hate it I won’t mind, truly. If you love it I will be thrilled beyond words.
Comments