Well, the challenges are mounting: the prompts for 99-word flash fiction are announced on Wednesdays and bite-sized memoir every Friday afternoon. This week it’s travel horrors for flash and childhood jinks and japes for memoir – or is it the other way around? My secret¹ ambition is to write a piece that satisfies both simultaneously but, until I get there, I’m making do with incorporating my separate responses into the one post; it gives me another excuse for navel-gazing on the writing process from memory to memoir or not.

Time was when I loved to travel, although now I much prefer to stay at home. But I have lots of cherished memories; I even have a stack of travel diaries I could use to check my facts. Charli’s prompt sparked off a stream of reminiscence, of thrills and spills and moments of, if not quite terror, some pretty dodgy stuff. Were I better raconteur, my travels would make for some great dinner-table storytelling, but my adventures have made only a rare appearance in my fiction and, when they did, I got confused as to what was memory and what imagination. When it came to my 99-words I was overwhelmed with possibilities, yet none seemed strong enough to demand their moment on the screen.

Charli²: But it’s fiction, you’re allowed to make things up!

Annecdotist: Yeah, but somehow I don’t want to this time; I want a story that stays faithful to the things I’ve seen and done.

Lisa²: Ha ha, you’re being converted to memoir.

Annecdotist: Only for this particular topic.

In the end, an idea bubbled to the surface and I grabbed it before it could sink back down again and another take its place. I don’t know why it chose me, but here it is:

I was scared as you were, believe me, but I smothered my anxieties with thoughts of tulips, van Gogh and canals as we bedded down with the down-and-outs in a dusky recess of the shopping mall.

A perfect plan in daylight: a lift halfway to Amsterdam. We’d pass the early hours in the waiting room and catch the first train out. No-one mentioned that the station closed its doors at night.

The police beamed torchlight across our faces. I thought they might relax the rules for two sisters, strangers to the city, but they ushered us into the night.

It’s not even that, with repetitive strain injury, I’m one of those writers who (physically) doesn’t write if she can help it.  It’s more that, as my head’s already crammed with other people’s stories, I tend not to go searching for more.  But sometimes a story is offered to me on a plate (if you read the story, you’ll see how apt is the cliché), and I feel I’ve no choice but to take it, which is exactly what’s happened with Peace-and-Quiet Pancake,  just published on the website Flash Fiction Online. 

I'm always pleased when my work finds a good home, but this feels extra special because I’m actually being paid for it (very rare for short stories on the web).  Now, this post is about ethics, but I'm not asking you to advise me on whether to declare this small amount of income on my tax return. (I'm not at all ambivalent about paying tax, just what it's spent on.) My discomfort relates to whether the story is genuinely mine to sell.

Don't get me wrong. I wrote the words and assembled them in the right order.  I devised the plot and structure, such as it is. But the content, the central event isn't entirely fictional and, what's more, while I was present as it happened, it didn't happen to me. So in a sense, it's the little girl's story not mine.

Do other writers worry about things like this?

A lot of my fiction is transformative: I'll take a disturbing event from my own life or what I see around me and, by re-authoring it, make it more manageable.  It tends to be a retrospective process, the idea for the story coming long after the event has taken place.  But something different has being happening with a short story I've been working on last week.  I'd never have imagined I'd have written a story with a backdrop of Margaret Thatcher's funeral.  I'd never have imagined I'd be following the events on the telly.  Yet shortly after her death was announced, the seed of the story had been planted inside me.  Then, in place of the rage that the government could fritter away £10 million of taxpayers' money for a not-quite state funeral when they are so mean about disability benefits, I'm calm and curious.  Sometimes it's hard being a writer but it makes sense for surviving these topsy-turvy times.
But that was the state of play as far as Thursday.  You know that thing about too much research?  Never my problem, generally, as I take a lazy/pragmatic attitude and do as little as I can get away with.  I had enough for my story with what the funeral might mean to people who feel their lives been blighted by her political career.  Yet even as an extremely passive researcher, I couldn't shut out the other things that were happening, other reactions and protests.  So now I'm left wondering whether somehow I've got to fit that Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead song into my story.  I won't really know until next week when all the pomp and protest has died down if my story has been killed or not.  Don't you ever wish real life would just shut up and go away?

My next post will probably be on author bios and the published novelist's itinerant lifestyle.  Do come back -- I promise you the writing will be sharper than these photos.