Let’s get one thing straight before we begin: everything in my books is 100% fictional. Totally made up. A product of my vast and untainted imagination.
…Unless you read it and thought, “Huh, that specific, oddly niche fear about porcelain dolls feels… deeply personal.” In which case, no, you didn’t, and we shall never speak of this again.
The truth is, I’ve tried to keep my life and my work in neat, separate boxes. I bought the boxes! I labeled them! But my characters, the little traitors, keep prying the lids off with their grubby fictional fingers and rummaging around in my emotional junk drawer.
The “artistic borrowing” system
I don’t mean to expose myself. It starts innocently enough. A character needs a quirk. Well, I think: I have this irrationally powerful opinion about how to load a dishwasher correctly. That’s not a personality trait; it’s a moral stance. Suddenly, my protagonist is having a tense standoff over improperly racked spoons.
They need a core memory. Hmm, I muse, what’s a memory that viscerally shaped me? Oh, just that time in fourth grade when I got so stressed over picking a team to work with that I cried in the hallway for two hours. Perfect, universal experience! And into the manuscript it goes.
See? It’s not me. It’s art. It’s relatability. It’s definitely not me using my novels as a bizarre public therapy session.
The tell-tale heart (but it’s my tell-tale angst)
The real trouble starts with the big stuff. The fears. The hidden shames. The unanswered “what ifs” that keep you up at 2 AM.
That villain’s monologue about feeling fundamentally unlovable? Purely speculative.
That hero’s paralyzing fear of being forgotten? Just good drama!
That side character’s deeply specific yearning for a place to belong? I’m simply an empathetic writer!
…Okay, fine. You got me. My books are my diary. I just publish them, slap a fancy cover, and charge people $14.99 for the privilege of reading my subconscious.
Why do I keep doing that?
Because here’s the secret: the moments I’ve borrowed — the real, raw, cringe, beautiful, aching bits — are the ones readers dog-ear. They’re the lines people quote back to me. They’re the how did you know? comments in my DMs.
Turns out, my most specific, personal embarrassments are your universal truths. My private heartaches are our shared language. By letting my characters snitch on me, I’m (hopefully) telling you: you’re not alone in your weird little thoughts.
So, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep giving my hero my nervous habit of cracking knuckles when anxious, and my villain my lifelong grudge against canned peas. I’ll keep hiding my heart in plain sight on the page.
Just, for the love of all that is holy, next time you see me? Maybe don’t mention the porcelain doll thing.
— Montse
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