The relationship between a writer and the characters he/she creates intrigues me. There's something almost arcane and alchemical about the process; to invest life where previously there was none. Inevitably it sometimes brings out the worst traits in the author - megalomaniacal tendencies, and the projection of supressed neuroses and perversions - but this only makes it all the more fascinating.
I've often considered creating a 'superior' version of myself for the purposes of a fictitious piece - a more confident, assertive, wittier me. Having done so, it might then be possible to extend the experiment further and actually portray this character in the real world. But fear that it might lead to some kind of pathological meltdown has rather deterred me!
The root of this obsession with the dynamics of fact and fiction was the fate of a relative, a novelist named Edgar Mittelholzer (long out of print, but considered to have some historic significance on account of being a pioneering Carribean writer) who choose to kill himself in a fire in the same manner as the lead character in his last book. He seems almost to have rehearsed his own demise in fiction, or perhaps his creation achieved such vitality that it served as an inspiration. Whatever the case, although I never knew the guy (he died a decade before I was born) the inextricable bond he forged with his art remains a prescient influence on me.
I've often considered creating a 'superior' version of myself for the purposes of a fictitious piece - a more confident, assertive, wittier me. Having done so, it might then be possible to extend the experiment further and actually portray this character in the real world. But fear that it might lead to some kind of pathological meltdown has rather deterred me!
The root of this obsession with the dynamics of fact and fiction was the fate of a relative, a novelist named Edgar Mittelholzer (long out of print, but considered to have some historic significance on account of being a pioneering Carribean writer) who choose to kill himself in a fire in the same manner as the lead character in his last book. He seems almost to have rehearsed his own demise in fiction, or perhaps his creation achieved such vitality that it served as an inspiration. Whatever the case, although I never knew the guy (he died a decade before I was born) the inextricable bond he forged with his art remains a prescient influence on me.