We all have it don’t we? As authors and writers. This vivid imagination. So, imagine the scene: sitting around a table at lunch with friends who we’ve helped out at some point or another.
Between the lettuce leaves and fizzy water, we innocently ask for an update and are shot down in flames, well, at least that’s how it feels. And then when we get home, we dwell on the scene, reliving every syllable and facial expression, the furrowed brows, the downturned lips, almost sneering, but not. We remember how we couldn’t taste the lettuce, or the water, all we could taste was the bitterness of rejection.
Then we continue to boil; should we make a phone call and have it out with them? Ask why they were all fuzzy and warm when they wanted something, but cutting and sniping when we express an interest in their progress?
No - of course we don’t. We are writers. We use it to the very last drop, and then some. Because that feeling, that feeling of rejection and shun cannot be imagined, and let’s face it, we will, at some time or another, want our characters to feel the same.
So we write about it. It and all the other life experiences; the good, the bad and yes indeedy - sometimes the downright ugly.
They’re worth their weight in gold.