There’s a whispered assumption that fiction writers are always spilling someone’s tea—just dressing it up in fantasy or fog and hoping no one recognizes the teacup. And while I won’t confirm or deny such claims (my legal team and sense of self-preservation would both like a word), I will say this: real life has a way of showing up in fiction whether you invite it or not.
Sometimes it starts with a moment. A single conversation, a strange look, a gut feeling you couldn’t shake. Other times it’s a character—someone you met once at a party, or someone who made a lasting impression by being exactly the wrong kind of unforgettable. And just like that, they worm their way in, not as they were, but as they could be. It’s not copying. It’s composting. What was true becomes fertile ground for what’s possible.
Writers don’t recreate real life. We remix it. We take the edge off certain truths, turn up the volume on others, and hand them over to people who never existed. By the time the story hits the page, what inspired it has been stitched into something new—layered, weathered, blurred at the seams. It’s not a confession. It’s craft.
There’s a freedom in fiction. A kind of emotional diplomacy that allows you to explore without pointing fingers. To ask what if instead of remember when. And if someone happens to recognize a glimmer of something familiar, well… maybe they’re just reading into it.
We all pull from somewhere. Every writer has a past, a witness account, a vault of moments that refused to stay quiet. The trick is to honor the emotion, not the event. To shape story without serving subpoenas.
So yes, sometimes real life leaves fingerprints on the page—but that doesn’t mean the book is evidence.
Take, for example, a tense lunch meeting that once ended in someone dramatically slamming their fork down and storming out over something as small as a misquoted Bible verse. In real life, it was uncomfortable and a bit surreal. In fiction? That moment became the emotional crescendo of a chapter where a pastor’s wife throws down her silverware during a church potluck and exposes her husband’s affair in front of everyone. Same heartbeat, different anatomy.
Or maybe you once knew someone whose kindness had sharp edges—someone who gave compliments like they came with strings attached. That person might show up in a novel as a queen’s advisor, subtly poisoning the court with flattery while orchestrating her downfall. That’s not the same person you knew. But the vibe? Oh, the vibe is unmistakable.
Even places get their turn. A dusty little laundromat with flickering lights and a mystery stain on the bench becomes the location of a secret exchange between spies. That gas station with the oddly friendly night clerk? Now it’s a halfway house for magical beings passing through. Real life is the blueprint; fiction builds the castle.
None of these things are lifted word-for-word from reality. That’s not how this works. Fiction is a transformation. You take the bones and give them new flesh. You take the feeling and wrap it in fire or feathers. It’s the emotional truth that carries weight, not the GPS coordinates.
At the end of the day, writing fiction is less about airing grievances and more about alchemy. We don’t write to expose the past—we write to explore the possibilities of what those past moments could become when unshackled from reality. It’s healing, it’s art, and sometimes… it’s just plain fun.
So if you ever catch yourself wondering whether something in a story really happened—whether a character was inspired by someone the author knew—you might be asking the wrong question. Instead of “Is this true?” try “What truth does this reveal?” That’s where the magic lives. Not in the details you can pin down, but in the emotions that feel so real they might as well have been yours.
And if anyone thinks they see themselves in a story?
Well. That says more about them than it does about me.
xo Ametra.
