My first attempts at writing fiction were as a pre-teen, huddled in my room with a spiral notebook and pen, scribbling away. Two chapters of strained dialogue and always two girls in southern belle dresses and absolutely no plot, I would grow bored and go outside to play.
Freshmen year in high school I was writing a book about a girl who finds a baby. The baby’s name is Emily (all my characters were named Emily) and the mother was of course in a southern belle gown and the first two chapters were only dialogue of some sort and my dear teacher said, “Why don’t you write about something you know.” Something clicked and for twenty eight years hence that is what I write. And write it well, I believe. But in my heart I wish I could write a stunning, beautifully choreographed novel.
I am not entirely sure that I could write fiction. A novel seems preposterous in the creation of worlds and dialogue and characters. For just in life, I am chained to the truth. The characters would end up being exact replicas of those in my real life and so at the beginning of said novel I would have to say “all characters are the imagination of the author and any resemblance is purely coincidental (sorry mom)” and the whole plot would read strangely like my blog, and somehow everyone would be wearing southern belle gowns. I do believe I may be a firm non-fiction writer. Fabulous, but oh I do wish I could dream up a scape of world complete with whimsy and easy dialogue and characters to remember. I shall wait patiently for the idea to land upon me. In the meantime I am dreaming up my next non-fiction farm book…complete with everyone wearing aprons.