Thoughts on ageing, creativity and regret

It’s Easter Day and a wet gloomy day here in Manchester, and frankly I’m half-wishing I was having fun somewhere less rainy, instead of sitting in my room trying to write a one-page synopsis of my novel, which is not going according to plan. But holidays and weekends are my designated writing time, and so I intend to persevere.

Often I wonder where my compulsion to create art comes from, and why it grows stronger and more obsessive with age. I could argue it’s because I haven’t had children, but that seems simplistic – some of the most talented and driven creative people I know are also parents. I suspect in my case it’s a growing awareness of the passing of time and the desire to make the most of my one precious life.

I’m lucky to be in good physical health and I still feel young most of the time, but there are little indications that I’m not in my twenties or thirties any more: a cracked tooth that can’t be fixed, having to dye my hair more frequently,  struggling to hear over loud music. When I walk past the university, no one hands me the nightclub flyers any more.

Here’s a confession: when I was younger, I used to imagine that if I could just become a successful published author, it would solve my feelings of profound unworthiness and failure. At last I’d be worthy of respect, the equal of everyone else at the college reunion or the competitive dinner party, and I could finally lay down my burden of shame.

I realise now that it doesn’t work like that. Achievement and status don’t necessarily fulfil unmet emotional needs. And as I discovered, writing in order to seek validation leads to creative paralysis. The more we yearn for approval, the more it eludes us, as we stifle our authentic voice or are too afraid of judgement to share our work at all.

One of the top regrets of the dying is that they wished they’d had the courage to be themselves and spend less time worrying what people thought. Our culture encourages us to measure and compare ourselves right up to the day when it’s no longer a tooth but a vital organ that can’t be fixed, and only then we see the truth clearly: that we always were equal and we always were worthy of respect, regardless of how others chose to treat us.

I don’t want to be faced with those regrets. I want to be a successful author, but in order to express myself honestly and to create work for others to enjoy.  I’m also determined to travel on the road towards self-acceptance, however hard it gets, and even if I never fully arrive at my destination.

And if anyone knows how to write a one-page novel synopsis without wanting to tear your hair out in despair, do let me know.

Happy Easter to you all x

The mysterious origins of fictional characters

_mg_7743For a long time I’ve been fascinated by the concept of fictional characters. People who exist in the form of ideas, transmitted from the minds of creators to readers across continents and centuries. Despite having no physical presence, they’re recognisable and knowable, as well as the subjects of endless dispute and reinterpretation.

Having studied literature and been a member of book clubs, it strikes me just how intense and heated the discussion can get when readers love or despise a particular character. Fiction seems to give us an outlet to express strong feelings or beliefs about others that we’d hesitate to reveal in a real-world context.

We all have our favourite characters, but where do they come from? Are they inspired by real people? Are they invented from scratch and assigned a set of predefined characteristics? Or do they emerge fully formed from somewhere deep in the swirling chaos of the subconscious?

Obviously the answer depends on the author and their subject matter. I can only speak for myself. I’m not a memoir writer or an autobiographical novelist, and I don’t base my characters on real people (as my friends reading this may or may not be relieved to know…)

I do, however, use some elements of my life, as well as aspects of personalities I’ve encountered in the past. All authors to an extent ‘write what they know.’ Whether our story is about medieval pirates or a satire on the modern workplace, we use our emotional experiences as a basis for exploring those of others.

I began my current novel in 2015 with two characters and a setting. That was all I had to go on.  I had a vague sense of where I wanted these two people to end up, but no real plan for how I’d get them there.

For me, the characters emerge as blurry figures, which slowly come into focus. Sometimes I start with a name. I have a thing about names. They have such strong associations for me that I’d more willingly change my character’s age and appearance than what they’re called.

Gradually, more details are revealed. The outline of a face, an accent, a profession. Very soon I know all sorts of things about them: their troubled past, their taste in art or music, their secret fears and desires.

This is the point where I feel them to be ‘alive’.

Writers talk about ‘the characters controlling the story,’ which sounds mystical, but what it means is we’ve achieved a deep-level, intuitive understanding of that person in all their complexity. After that, they do take charge, because we can no longer make them say or do things they wouldn’t, in order to further the plot. We can try to force it, but it won’t feel right, and we or our readers will sense a lack of credibility.

Secondary or minor characters are slightly different for me. Sometimes, like the main players, they appear seemingly out of nowhere. Other times I consciously create them, because I feel the story needs someone extra to lend it humour or a different perspective.

These characters may start off as one-dimensional or stereotypes. I find it takes a little longer for them to come fully alive when they occupy less space in the narrative. It may not be until the second draft that I get to know them as individuals, which is when they start behaving outside of the narrow expectations I’ve set for them.

As any avid reader knows, it’s possible to become completely and utterly obsessed with fictional characters. This is even more true when we’re creating our own. Since we have full access to their minds, we can get to know them more deeply than a partner, perhaps even ourselves.

I think it’s a good thing that we fall in love with our characters, weird as it may seem to some. Most writing is more effective when the author’s emotions are engaged, and readers are more likely to adore our made-up people if we do.

Characters in stories aren’t a substitute for human connection. Our fictional love can never hold our hand or visit us in hospital or help us bring up our children. But they can be a compassionate presence in our lives, a solace in difficult times, an inspirational hero or heroine, and a route to self-knowledge and empathy.

 Such is the power of our imaginations.