I think, as a writer of melodrama, the greatest opportunities come from reading something that is akin to getting ice water in the face when one is comfortably warm and dry.
I read something today which awakened me to an unsavory truth about myself that I’m pissed off over. I raged over it in writing. Well, this particular bug up my heinie is irritating enough that it’ll probably land in one or more of my fictional worlds. Hm. Aha! I know which book to put it in, now, too.
On another note, for some reason I am going wacky-doodles writing backstory for this one Romance-n-Chocolates book. Yesterday, I even went to a craft store and looked through the candy-making section, to make sure that what I knew wasn’t totally off. I learned some, got hands-on with what was being sold, and I’m okay. While yes, this is dealing with boutique retail candy production over home production, I have a huge assortment of cookbooks which address any number of sweets-making. I look at those books and sigh at the pictures. Chocolate-making is artful and beautiful. My problem is that I have no use for one pound of chocolates, much less a hundred. But I research, I learn, and I develop a world where people can do this because others do it . . . even if I have taken my once-doubled cookie recipes and have halved them. I have a life that can handle eighteen reasonably-sized cookies; I don’t have a life that can handle four dozen. Or more.
Am I breaking the rule of “Write what you know?”
Oh, boy. I just realized all of those people who write murder mysteries and horror novels . . . how horrible a world would that be if they wrote from their personal experiences instead of whatever nightmares they suffered?
Perils of a fertile mind. Moving on.