It comes from keeping it as real as you can while it's completely unreal. Especially in fiction-writing of any kind. You fight to build a world that has meaning and grace and provokes thought while maintaining a core of truth and honesty...and who the fuck am I kidding? I just wanna have fun playing with my fantasies and spitting into the wind without it flying back in my face.
That's not so easy to do...not when your imagination is as warped as mine is. Right now, I'm trying to feed my inner growling thing a story where a woman is more of a man than the men in the piece, while a man is the heart and soul of it. Totally turning the whole damned aspect of basic storytelling on its head. And feeling somewhat bruised and battered by it all.
The protagonist in Carli's Kills is a woman who abandoned her daughter to the care of her less-than-beloved grandmother and went gallivanting all over the world, screwing around and treating men like live dildos, for the most part. She did like some of them, but they're toys to her. And no judgement allowed about that. In fact, she's proud of it.
Then she meets a lovely lad who brings her back to earth from her lofty heights...and doest't so much tame her as let her see there are other possibilities in life, and sometimes it's better to share them than to kick out and do it all on your own. She's not a bad woman; she's just hell on wheels, and God help anyone who tries to run her off the road.
I've felt moral judgement creeping into CK. Well...guess what? That's what's going out the window on this next draft. Carli wonders about her choices, but doesn't feel they were wrong. She was never meant to be a mother; religion and the law forced her to be.
And she just plain does not accept the whole idea that she was meant for nothing else.
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