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Why fiction?

People often ask me why I write fiction. Hell, I ask myself that on a daily basis. I say, “Terri, why do you write fiction?” I mean, it really is a pain in the ass. It’s not like you can put it down and pick up where you left off the next day. It is a tiring, seemingly endless process.

And I love it.  That’s why I write fiction. Because I fucking love it.

I did spend the last two years writing lots and lots of non-fiction in the form of term papers and reports. I painfully recall the nightmare that was my thesis.  I have also written loads of non-fiction on this blog. And let us not forget (although I would very much like to) all those letters I wrote to my creditors, promising payment as soon as I landed a paying job. If any of my creditors are reading this, the check’s in the mail. Really.

I can write non-fiction. Really I can!

I just don’t want to.

Okay, those letters may have been more fiction than non-fiction, since I was stretching the truth and producing a little drama. Don’t judge.  So what, if I straddled the fence between fiction and non-fiction? It’s not the first time I ever straddled something…er, I mean straddled the fence about something.

Just yesterday I suffered through an anxiety attack brought on by my inability to decide whether to have a peanut butter sandwich with jelly or banana.  It was a tough decision.  Jailhouse Rock was playing on my iPod.  I was drawn in by images of pelvic thrusts and bedazzled capes.  I was leaning heavily (pun intended) toward Elvis’ personal fave.

What would you have done?

I ended up just eating the banana. No peanut butter. No sandwich. Just the banana. I’m a wild woman, but Elvis’ naughty gyrations just don’t do it for me anymore. 

It’s a freaking party-fest at my place.  Stuff is happening up in here all the time. Most people wouldn’t be able to handle all the excitement.  I’m serious. I’ve progressed all the way up to two naps, four trips up and down the hall with my walker, six cups of coffee, and eight trips to the potty…per day.  Throw in a jaunt to the door when the mailman knocks, and I’m pooped.  It hardly leaves any time or energy for frolicking, pillaging, or chasing my wife around the bed in my plaid boxers and John Elway football jersey. 

But you can’t have it all, right?

So that is why I write fiction.  I either completely make the shit up or I draw from some obscure previous experience in my life, then mix it all up in my head, and pepper it with dreams, desires, dirty dance moves, hallucinations, inclinations, delusions, and some seriously dramatized bullshit.

Then I write. 

For me it is not only a creative outlet for self-expression, but it is also a form of escapism.

And a damned good reason to drink cheap wine.

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    terrisonoda - Terri's Little Corner - Why fiction?

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