I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much realism belongs in fiction. As writers, we pull from life constantly, whether we mean to or not. But sometimes life hands us experiences that make us pause and ask, how much of this actually belongs on the page?
Over the last few months, I’ve dealt with some unexpected health challenges. Without turning this into a full medical rundown, let’s just say my body reminded me that we are not invincible, and comfort is never guaranteed. It hasn’t been easy, and while what I’ve gone through doesn’t compare to a permanent disability, it’s given me a new awareness of how quickly your daily life can shift. How the smallest things you used to take for granted can suddenly feel like an uphill climb.
It made me reflect on a character I’ve been working on for a while now. He’s a paraplegic father, actively participating in the raising of his children. When I first decided to write him, I knew I couldn’t treat his reality lightly. I couldn’t make assumptions or gloss over the hard parts, but I also didn’t want to reduce him to a list of challenges or medical terminology. His life isn’t a cautionary tale or a plot device. It’s complex, layered, full of struggle and joy, like anyone else’s.
The more I researched, the more I realized how many details I never would have considered if I hadn’t made myself slow down and look. It wasn’t just about how he moved or what obstacles he faced physically. It was smaller than that. Like how his daughter’s crib would need a left-to-right opening so he could reach her without struggling. Details like that are easy to overlook if you’ve never lived it or taken the time to learn.
All of this has made me even more aware of that slippery slope between meaningful detail and too much information. I mean, we’ve all read a book where the author clearly had thoughts about just how real things should get. I recently finished a historical fiction novel by an author who’s basically an authority in the genre. Brilliant writer, respected, knows their stuff. But even they couldn’t resist including a scene about King Henry VIII’s… well… constipation. Not only that, but the fact that, during particularly difficult moments, those close to him would grip his hand to provide moral support as he, shall we say, struggled to reclaim his throne. I mean… what? Who asked for that level of accuracy? At some point, you have to wonder, how much realism is TMI?
Going through my own health issues didn’t make me an expert. It didn’t suddenly give me permission to speak for anyone else. But it did open my eyes to how fragile normal can be. How your body, your independence, even your sense of self can feel different in a matter of days. And it made me even more determined to approach writing characters with physical disabilities with care, humility, and a lot of listening.
There’s no perfect answer to how much realism belongs in a story. Sometimes, pulling back keeps fiction an escape. Other times, those little, honest details are exactly what make a character feel real. I’m learning it’s not about adding struggle for the sake of drama. It’s about adding humanity, one thoughtful choice at a time.
xo Ametra.
