Writers are dangerous people. We sit there smiling sweetly at dinner while mentally narrating your microexpressions in third person. We say, “Tell me more”, not because we’re interested, but because we’re deciding how much of you we can get away with fictionalizing.
So let me just say it now:
If you’ve ever interacted with me in a way that’s caught my attention… you’re already in my drafts.
And if we haven’t? There’s still time. I’m only on weird date number 29.
Exhibit A: The softboy in chapter three
I’ve got a character who overanalyzes song lyrics and would definitely play “champagne problems” by Taylor Swift on his piano as a serenade and maybe a foreshadowing. And if you think he’s not based on the guy who recommended “At Seventeen” by Janice Ian to me, then you’re giving me too much credit.
He’s been edited, of course. Fictionalized. More tragic. (But still terrible at communicating.)
Exhibit B: The walking red flag who thinks he’s mysterious
There’s always that one that kept you at an arm’s length for maybe a year and a half.
You know the one: charming, unreadable, emotionally unavailable in a sexy way. He haunts a couple of my stories and poems, multiplying like a trauma hydra. But he gave me some of the best material I could ask for.
He didn’t give me structure in my life, but he did give me a three-act structure and a killer monologue. So who really won?
Exhibit C: The one I actually was really into
Some drafts are gentler, softer. Maybe sadder. They’re the what-ifs. The almosts. The best dates ever.
They show up in my writing not as villains or deaths, but as ghosts. Beautiful, blurry memories I can only shape with metaphors.
Those are the ones that hurt me the most. And, so I’ve been told, hurt you the most too. I think that’s kinda beautiful.
So, whoever this may concern, consider this you PSA
Yes, I will write about you.
Yes, you will recognize yourself (that’s the intention). You’ll be halfway through a scene when you pause and think: Wait… didn’t I say that once?
And I’ll smile and say, “Of course not. It’s fiction.”
Now you know the truth.
The messy breakups? Real.
The unsent texts? Mine.
The sex scenes? Enhanced. (NOT ALL OF THEM! MOST ARE ACTUALLY JUST FICTION!)
The revenge? Deliciously disguised.
Reading my stories means peeking into the emotional underworld that is my love life, you little voyeur. It’s raw, reworked, and mostly rewritten out of pure spite.
So enjoy! Your toxic traits have been immortalized forever.
— Montse
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