Not long ago I queried an agent about a memoir I’d started writing. I received a response the very next day. I wasn’t surprised, as the material is salacious and very marketable. After working on the synopsis etc, I changed my mind. Why? It’s simple really, it was too damn easy. Let me explain. There are two sorts of fiction writers: Those who use their imaginations to create worlds and people who do not exist in reality and those who mine the depths of their own lives and the lives of others for their stories. Since I was a child I’ve been in the former category, until the quest for money became paramount and then I attempted to slide my literary arse into the latter and I loathed it. I didn’t dislike it because I had nothing to say, but rather because I had too much to say. My life has been eventful and quite wretched a great deal of the time and the pickings off the tree were abundant. I didn’t have to do anything but alter some names and gorge on the past. That sort of feast is unhealthy for the soul but fantastic for a hefty wallet if one is so inclined but its not my can of beans if you get my drift. Right now I’ve got twelve short stories at various stages of development and I should have them in the can by spring. I’ve one children’s story at four chapters and a middle reader novel in the country of the undecided, yet I feel this will be the book that succeeds. Until then I’ll imbue my work with pearls from my imagination rather than pain acrued from picking at old scabs from a hurtful past. As someone once told me, it’s called the past for a reason.