The people I know seem overall not to get to know Clovis well enough to spend much time judging me for writing about him. A lot of writers have to deal with others' preconceptions, though, all the time. "Ooh, you write horror? (Something must be wrong with you ...)" Or maybe the author of Young Adult must be emotionally stunted, immature. Romance, she must be desperate - who knows.
Finding out I write battles and beheadings, it would seem impossible, from my perspective, for anyone who knows me - middle-aged, suburban, secretarial me - to conflate me with my work in any way. There doesn't, to me, seem any correlation between my self and my characters. I don't nurture them as avatars for my desires and dreams.
The major part of what fascinates me about story - any story; my own, or others; fiction or history (or ... both) - is separating from my little niche within the world. Women like me disinterest me supremely, in writing. The world I occupy doesn't draw me in: I *am* in it. For entertainment, I want to be removed, I want to experience something *else*, I want to LEARN something - and, chauvinistically, I don't feel the experience I already have has as much to teach me as that I may not understand or know.
Writing - and reading - are, for me, an exercise in "Calgon, take me away!" ... not a means by which to explore the familiar. And so, for me, the idea that I must be equated with my story is somewhat puzzling. Even knowing perfectly well my level of investment is unique, and outright strange (even sad, I think, to some who feel such passion in their involvement with their characters - though I don't think Leila feels this way about me!), it's hard for me to imagine even the most self-projecting reader or writer looking at me and thinking, "She wants to sink an ax in somebody's skull" ...
Heh. Then again, certain afternoons at work - maybe it seems possible.
1 day ago