The only time I ever typed the next four words was in a text message; I fled The Trump Regime, it’s strange to put that down. Was it in fear? Yes, were there other factors? Yes. It wasn’t with guns blazing all around, bombs going off, it was by in-laws suddenly becoming my enemies. My Mother in Law making a barb about guests minding their manners and not throwing stones. I didn’t flee mid warzone, I fled in the middle of the ascension of something all too familiar to European history. In some form I envied the American that didn’t know or care why the world looked upon Trump through the cracks of their fingers.
What does this have to do with writing you ask? Plenty I say – This is why writers prefer fantastical yarns of dragons or Boy Band member type Vampires. Historical fiction is a gambit of what’s frivolous and what’s probable. We writers observe people better than anyone on two fronts; love and fear, every so often we get accurate when we were aiming for fanciful. You think I want FALSE PROVIDENCE to be a guidebook to the future??
No I don’t! And who’s future do I mean anyway, January 6th would have told me America, October 25th would have suggested the U.K. Hell Russia could fold, split up and contend at this rate!!
We’re treading into the unknown or at least that’s what we hope for, this dark path could be a loop, a roundabout, a wheel of year numbers that might fall to 1933. And that could really be for any of us, there’s a smorgasbord of storytelling to be had if it wasn’t so unnerving. Not least since we harken back to the days of Royal rivalries, where a Writer could make a War of the Roses for the modern age – Nobody has a damn clue what to expect these days. Authors should enter dystopian world building with caution, you never know what you’ll manifest into reality
Belle's Gateway 