The Element of Truth

I always thought that it was a nonsense that writers should and could only write about what they know. I think I have mentioned this before.

But the reason that I have not been back to the book or the blog is that the element of truth has been haunting me.

I underwent some training that touched a nerve with me. It was about bad experiences and the consequences of treating others badly.

And it began a journey back through my memory that I did not want to have.

But that's the thing about the element of truth, it is strong and resistant to age, years, experience and places. You can walk into a room that you have never been in before and suddenly a smell or sight or sound will remind you of something long ago and the emotions of the moment will flood over you.

For the most part I hope that any such memories are good ones. The ones that warm us in the cold or make us smile when we think we can't.

I get that feeling whenever I say 'Who's bashed ya?' because that was what my Nan use to say when I was low. And now I say it to others to lift the mood and attempt to get to the root of the problem. And it reminds me of my Nan who use to make the best roast potatoes in the world.

But, alas, the element of truth is also a indiscriminate one.

And, sometimes, just twisted and tangled with that warm and good feeling it nestles to remind you of something not quite right. Or lead you to something you would rather not remember.

And that's what it did not me.

It dragged me back to a moment and suddenly I was not a grown woman with a family of her own and a mortgage, but a child crying and not understanding.

The one thing that I understand now is that what happened to me was wrong. It is the route of all my insecurites and why I still do not have the confidence to do what I want to and why I feel that everyone is watching me just waiting for me to do something that they conceive is a mess up and punish me for it.

I am writing about a child that was abused and that is all. But this element of truth is both holding me back and spurring me on.

The princess was raised by a strange father and a mother who, to all onlookers did not want her child. Whilst I cannot identify with the level of abuse that my character endures I can identify with how she must have felt. And I want to get that over in my writing.

Will it release me from those memories, I doubt it. Will it suddenly make me want to confront and resolve? I hope not. Or will it just soften their edges until I can fold them back up and put them away again? That I do hope.

So, dammit, I am writing about what I know and what I thought was nonsense contains and element of truth.