When I sit down to write the stories that are playing in my mind; more often than not I take inspiration from reality. The stories I write are made up and perhaps their struggles are too; but the people themselves are real and sometimes their struggles are too.
I read a long time back, about how folks who have a penchant for writing and storytelling are sometimes the worst friends you could ever have.
Reading books allowed me to understand people better – not gloating; really. When a friend confides in their problems with me, I immediately recollect a story I read where a character faced a similar question as the one the person before me has been dealt with, and I tell them of the story I read. Sometimes, I think my advises are not my own – rather they are anecdotes I read in books and lessons I ended up learning through them. I’ve been reading books since a long time now. I’ve never restricted myself when it came to this love of mine and I’ve lived so many lives because of it. So when I say I understand; I truly do.
As I started to write another piece of fiction today; I found myself treading too close to real- tangible boundaries. Lost in the craze to lay open this story; I realised that the character I claim to be a piece of fiction is actually too real and so is their story. So I stopped; deleted everything I wrote and decided to pen this confession instead.
One can’t promise that the restraint shown today will be there always but one can always try to show reality as make believe and garnish it with fantasy so real, it loses all of it’s non fiction undertones. After all when you’ve read too many stories – you’re bound to become a story teller.