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| Image by Tumisu from Pixabay |
One of the joys of reading fiction for me is that I get to see what lives in another person’s head. How amazing is that!
The book I finished most recently was The Institute by Stephen King. I don't want to spoil the novel for anyone who has it in their own to-read pile, so I'll leave out the specifics and just say King creates some believable heroes and villains, and can keep the plot moving fluidly. I've come to believe it's all in the details.
As a writer, though, I am often left wondering if fiction just might not be my niche. I don't think I'm adept at coming up with enough details to fully craft a character or to keep a plot from being choppy and disjointed. I don't know if it's a lack of creativity, but that's what it feels like.
Ten years ago, fiction was about all I ever tried to write. I pounded away at my keyboard looking for a way to get from two characters sipping coffee at the kitchen table to the threat just outside their kitchen window. Perhaps the problem is that I never fully developed the plot. Or maybe I'm just not that creative.
I find myself focusing on nonfiction — essays, journal entries, commentary — today, and in truth, it does come easier to me. But I still have a fondness for fiction, and I hope, I really and truly hope, that if I sat down, made myself write a short story or two, and didn't, under any circumstances let myself get discouraged, if I could finish a story.
Maybe I could let out these characters living in my own head, let them walk around, let them introduce themselves to other readers.
Just maybe.
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