I have always been terrified of attempting to write fiction. Fiction’s what real writers write; people who can think of plots and characters and don’t need to hide behind facts. Apart from doubting my ability to invent things – which is a good deficiency for historians to have, surely? – I assumed that fiction would be too personal. The Q and A sessions at the end are often the best bits of any speaking engagement, but I find myself a little bewildered by questions about me: how do I work, why do I write, what does my family think, who inspired me, and so on (so why does she indulge herself in a blog, I hear you mutter; she’s a solipsistic hypocrite…) But it’s true: in a professional capacity I shy away from talking about my role as an author, preferring instead to concentrate on my subject. The people I write about are genuinely so much more interesting than I am. That’s why I write about them.
What I have failed to appreciate all these years is that writing fiction doesn’t necessarily involve writing about yourself. I mean it probably does on a subliminal level – of course it does – but if you are a novelist it doesn’t follow that you have nowhere to hide. I hide behind history at the moment; if I were a novelist I could hide behind invention. Think how liberating that idea is, especially to those of us with a responsibility to get things right, and to do our best by other people (alive or dead). There is no ‘right’ when you’re a novelist. There is only truth, and that’s a movable feast. How tempting is that?
So: I’ve decided that while I wait in agitated trepidation for the first editorial responses to come in about the illegitimacy book, I’ll try teaching myself to let go of fact and have a go at fiction instead. I’ll just write a couple of thousand words a day, say, and see what emerges. Surely that’ll do me good, both in a mechanical sense – to stop me rusting, as I suggested in my previous blog – and creatively. But what then? What part does creativity play in non-fiction? Especially history? This is dangerous ground, I feel. But sometimes, danger’s good.