Stranger than fiction

By Kelly

I’ve always answered the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” with a nervously whispered, “A writer.” I learned to read and write at age four, and wrote ridiculous, terrible stories and poems through high school. After I graduated, I became sidetracked and it took me close to 10 years to get back to regular writing, and I have just recently allowed myself the pleasure of writing fiction again. I almost can’t believe how much I’m enjoying the process.

Now I’m carrying a small notebook with me everywhere I go, or running for a scrap and a pen in the middle of switching laundry loads so I can scribble down some insight into a character’s motivation. These people I am writing about talk to me as much as my children do, and just like my offspring, the more I pay attention, the more they reveal. They also wake me up to tell me things in the middle of the night, and keep me worrying about details like: How will the protagonist resolve her feelings of ambiguity about her unexpected pregnancy without being stereotypical? How will I show the reader the connection between spring planting and the end of life? What if I don’t have the chops to do all of the research I need to do to make this historically and legally accurate? How will I know when it’s finished? Is there a way to talk about the alcoholism without sending up red flags to all of the men in my extended family? Because, really, a lot of material comes from my own life.

A recent visit from my parents revealed some interesting, lifelong habits that I have inherited; ways of being in the world that always slam me into an emotional brick wall. Sick to death of feeling sick to death of Me, I forced myself to find the space to watch it in action this time. I realized that my whole adult life I have waited for my parents to change, assuming that their doing so would give me permission to change without hurting them.

During this visit I took notes. Too many years have passed, and I’m ready to stop being unhappy with the way I am all of the time. I’m no different from most people I know. I’m a worrier, I’m insecure, I’m jealous of other people’s success, I’m terrified that I’ll never amount to anything, I am often uncomfortable in my own skin, hate my own voice, and cringe when passing a mirror much of the time. Writing plays a major role in keeping me free of serious unhappiness. My mental health stays in a more solid balance when I make time to write every day, and most of those things I just listed take a back seat.

After going through a lot of my scribbles from the visit, it dawned on me that these deeper relationship patterns are what my fiction writing lacks. I’ve been so afraid to write about any of this stuff, but I now see that I’m the only person who can give me permission to use it. I don’t want to write about the unhappy truths in my creative non-fiction or on my blog as much. Maybe that’s cowardice, maybe I’m too nice, maybe my mother succeeded in making me realize that it’s not cool to talk behind people’s backs and that if I don’t have anything nice to say, I should keep my pie-hole closed. But with fiction, I’m allowed to change things enough that I can disguise them. Besides, I doubt I'll be able to fully knock the insecurity, so what are the chances anybody will ever read it?

Kelly Ferry lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, teen son, and toddler daughter. She writes when she can, thinks about writing when she can't, and knows more will be revealed.

Comments

[moonface]

i've always wanted to be a writer too - but have only just started actually writing regularly. i can relate so much to this post.

[amy h.]

What a great post. I have just started writing from the non-fiction end of things, and I have been somewhat reluctant to try fiction out (although my one small attempt at a short story told me that I, like you, will have voices talking to me and aching to be heard as soon as I let myself take the plunge). Your post was inspiring...thanks.