Currently I am working on a story set in Mexico City. It’s partly based on my own experience there living in an apartment alone for 6 weeks while I worked on a research project. I was 22 at the time. Ironically the subject of the project was emerging feminism in politics in Mexico at the time. Ha! Well, the ironic part was how crazy that time was for me and mostly because I was a single woman, alone in a very large, dangerous city. Feminism seemed a little elusive.
But back to writing. I’ve stopped half way through and I have this problem with a fictionalized version of things. I need to get into the dream mode and look past the gritty reality. Okay, so either way it’s a good story, but letting it be an account of non-fiction would expose too much of me and that is very hard, very hard to do. In fact, I keep wrestling with this. Perhaps if I were a man…maybe then I’d just seem cool.
Anyway, I am stuck. Like I went down an alley way that kept on narrowing and getting dimmer until I found myself facing a brick wall. I am backing out and turning around, re-examining my story. I have stories I think should be told. But why, I ask, do they have to be so personal? Writing is a process either way. You find a way to make it work. You have to always find a way.