Today I wrote another troubling and exhausting scene. The type of fiction scene where you’re not exactly sure where it’s going but you’re certain you won’t enjoy it. The sort of scene where you end up crying midway through. The scene you can only hope creates the same emotions in the reader once they get a chance to read the final draft.
As I’ve managed to let myself go to write any and every subject that comes to mind, no matter how troubling or twisted or dark. On the one hand, this makes my writing and the stories more engaging. On the other hand, I feel I’ve actually given a piece of my body to the reader.
Along with that piece of my body given up to the reader, something else is playing out. I find many of my internal demons are bubbling up. I wonder if this is something that other writers struggle with.
Yes, my fiction is FICTION. None of the scene I write actually happened. None of the characters exist as they are written on the page. However, each character is based on a real life human being, or a collection of real life human beings. The scenes are stitched together from experiences, my thoughts, my creative juices, and my deepest fears and anxieties.
That said, I’ve found that fiction is both grueling and cathartic. It’s like sitting in a therapy session without having to pay for it. At the end of the day, Freud would have a field day with my fiction. I’m sure of it.