Truth v. Fiction

How much of what we write is directly from our lives? And how close are the characters in our stories to real people? Phew--that's tricky. I've just found an old letter from a friend, Ann Onnymus, about radio play she wrote. One character was assumed to be me by people who know me, with consequent misunderstandings about my role in Ann's life. Oh dear.
It's especially daunting when you want to write from the viewpoint of a flawed (misogynistic? racist? dishonest?) person. 'That isn't ME!' you want to protest. And then there are critics who say a man can't write as a woman and vice versa. (But I got a nice comment online about a story called 'The Spiral Moon' with a female narrator. The person commenting thought I was female. Maybe it helps to have one of those either/or first names.)
Some stories I've written are almost pure autobiography (with twiddles), I have to admit. But others put autobiography through the mincer. I want to feel free to create a scenario without someone thinking, 'Oh, you didn't do that, did you?'
 

On the art of being useless

I've stopped writing and started making things again. It's weird, like losing a limb. But I can't keep going against the flow. No-one has reviewed 'My Life With Eva' (just as no-one reviewed 'Henry's Bridge'). Hardly anyone who read it has made more than generalised comments. Several thousand Triangle Ted books are still in boxes in the attic. Hardly anyone has read 'What Took You So Long?' on MIROnline. There's no point writing things no-one reads. Including this, I suppose.

In 1988 I made a doll's house for my granddaughter Mary. It wasn't very suitable as a doll's house. She said later that she was frustrated because the doors don't open. She left it in the garden at her Dad's house and I rescued it. I'm now adapting and extending it. Satisfying in a way, though I feel like one of those French Napoleonic War prisoners on the hulks in Portsmouth Harbour who whittled miniature figures. That strange image above is of a jig to hold a crude balustrade in place till the glue dries. The surrounding floor is a mezzanine reached by a spiral stair (image to follow). The other image is one of the horse-and-cart models I make for my descendants.

At the start of 1988 I was unhappy, though the summer proved a delight. I doubt whether summer 2018 will prove a delight. The doll's house with its self-conscious geometry was a kind of therapy, just as it is now. I've become one of those sad old geezers who play with trains. I make no contribution to society. My knowledge and experience are untapped. So I make no apology for being useless and self-indulgent. But if an opportunity arose to do something significant . . .