The Author and the Character

For the past three weeks or so I’ve been using the excuse of waiting on a critique to not work on my Invictus writing. It’s a terrible excuse, but I kept lying to myself anyway.

I’ve finally come to the sobering realization that I have come to the personal part of my story, the true beginning of the blending of fiction and nonfiction. Since everything leading up to this point in the story has been completely ‘remembered’ by my character and not lived by me I was able to avoid the hardest part of the writing, the truth.

It’s caught up to me.

I now see what each of the other Invictus writers had to face in reflecting upon their own lives. My memories of the situation aren’t pretty, and I hate myself everyday for a lot of the things I’ve done, but I’ve got to delve into them in order to bring them out on the page. I can’t beat myself or my character will become a wailing man child. Who wants to read about that? There’s that fine line that I need to find to tie my character together.

Because I am as much as an author can be his character.

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