You know those Inspired by a true story provisos movies put at the beginning to say that they stole a little from someone’s life and then imagined the rest. I wrote myself an Inspired by a true story last week. I like the story I wrote. But I can’t do anything with it. How much can I do with a story inspired by true events, especially true events in the UK where the libel laws would like nothing more than to smack me down. Even though I don’t use any names or times and I change details grossly, I don’t think I can do anything with this story. Here, in Canada, the story gets no coverage. I can’t imagine a Canadian journal taking a chance on my stream-of-consciousness story about a forty year old Irish murder.
So what do I do? I guess I just put it aside as a study in writing I did. But that feels like a failure. Each story I write should be better than the last. I should be getting better the more I write. This, the newest story, by that measure, should be the best and I’m condemning it to rest forgotten on my hard drive. Until I write another story which then becomes the best. Then maybe I can look back at this one and realise, with disdain, how puerile it is.
When I was younger, I always wanted to write a story about The Troubles in Northern Ireland. I don’t know why. But now I have. So at least there’s that.