Today is my younger son’s birthday. I’m away at a conference in Florida and so won’t celebrate with him this day.
Yesterday, someone said to me that he ought to write his memoirs.
Shouldn’t we all?
Or, as writers, don’t we, already?
How many times have you written an incident that’s happened to you? Or used a trait of a relative to define a character? Or made the neighbor next door a peripheral character in a book?
Come on, confess. I’ll start. I made my in-laws major characters in one of my early books. Here’s the thing. Members of my family read the book and nobody recognized them.
Really. There was also a cousin, a neighbor, people I’d worked with — not so you’d recognize them, but I’d written to their personalities or family history, or something in their current livesused
My husband and sons — I won’t go there. Maybe, maybe not. But the cat — I featured our Calico cat in one of my books because I promised her, before she died.
And aunts and uncles — fair game, where I could reorder life with them to my taste and say what I should have said thirty years ago.
Writing, as it were, pieces of my biography entwined with fictionalizing them.
I shouldn’t write my memoirs. I should say, read my books. There, you’ll learn all about me.
Beyond the Night, the sequel to The Darkest Heart is available now as a Pocket Star eBbook.