I should have seen it coming. That I’d start writing fiction. I’ve been spewing it out my mouth for ages, just not writing it down on paper. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s not exactly true. (I’ll come back to that. Promise.) But I’ve made up stories forever. Not to be a big fat liar—although if the shoe fits—but more of a big fat maker upper.
I do this even when I’m by myself. For instance, the other day while I was driving home there was a pair of pants in the middle of the road. What’s a pair of pants doing in the middle of a two-lane highway? A normal person (I think) wouldn’t have given it a second thought, or they might think, Hey, that’s strange! But then they’d start compiling their grocery list. Not me, I start to formulate (or fabricate) a whole story about how and why those pants are there...in the middle of the road.
This story fabricating has been a part of my life for a long time. I mean, who doesn’t get stuck in rush hour traffic and make up stories about the people in their cars as they roll on by? I'm surely not the only one.
I mentioned earlier that I didn’t write previous fabrications down, but I lied. For some reason, in that moment, I recalled something I had long forgotten: Dream Prom Date Stories. As sophomores in high school, my best friend Julie and I (yes, two best friends named Jolie and Julie, no fabricating) wrote stories about going to prom with the senior boys we had crushes on. (swoon) Pages and pages these tales were! I can still remember sitting downstairs at Julie’s, reading the stories to each other. There was much giggling. Lots of giggling. And wishing. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on those pieces of notebook paper.
When, where, and how do you fabricate?
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