Oscar Wilde said, “Life imitates art more than art imitates life.” I adore Oscar Wilde, I really do. He’s one of my absolute favorites ever since I fell in love with The Importance of Being Ernest when I was in high school. However, I disagree with him on this point. Sacrilege, I know; and yet I do still disagree.
As I have just very publicly disagreed with the genius that is Oscar Wilde, I should probably admit to being the Jodie half of Lydia Dare. I’d never want Tammy to get my hate mail.
I don’t think it matters whether you are writing about an era long ago, one from the future, about characters who have fangs or ones who live quiet, desperate lives. As artists, we take from our life experiences when we create our worlds, characters and stories. We imitate life.
The first villain I wrote was a composite of my two lecherous uncles. I know, I know, it’s one thing to have one lecherous uncle, but two? Apparently, we’re special in that way. Aren’t you jealous? Still, every family has their skeletons, I suppose. And those skeletons are what we, as writers, draw upon when writing a dark character or scene. We imitate life.
Conversely, all those wonderful, special moments that make up our lives and the people who have meant so much to us are the inspiration for various characters and plot points along the way. There is more than one adolescent boy on the pages of my books who reflect different aspects of my son, right on down to his affection for scrawny, stray cats. We imitate life.
On a more serious note, an old friend of mine died not long ago. He was my age, my contemporary in every way. He was the first person I’ve lost who was of my generation. That reality has had a profound effect on me. Ever since I received that heartbreaking phone call, I spent a lot of time reflecting on people I once knew, those who have touched my life in one way or another, even if they are unaware of their impact on me. I can see bits and pieces of them in many different characters, which I might not have even been aware of when I created them. It’s comforting to realize that through my written word, part of them will always live on, at least to my way of thinking.
What is your take on the whole art/life imitation topic? Do you agree with Mr. Wilde that life imitates art? Or do you agree with me?
As I have just very publicly disagreed with the genius that is Oscar Wilde, I should probably admit to being the Jodie half of Lydia Dare. I’d never want Tammy to get my hate mail.
I don’t think it matters whether you are writing about an era long ago, one from the future, about characters who have fangs or ones who live quiet, desperate lives. As artists, we take from our life experiences when we create our worlds, characters and stories. We imitate life.
The first villain I wrote was a composite of my two lecherous uncles. I know, I know, it’s one thing to have one lecherous uncle, but two? Apparently, we’re special in that way. Aren’t you jealous? Still, every family has their skeletons, I suppose. And those skeletons are what we, as writers, draw upon when writing a dark character or scene. We imitate life.
Conversely, all those wonderful, special moments that make up our lives and the people who have meant so much to us are the inspiration for various characters and plot points along the way. There is more than one adolescent boy on the pages of my books who reflect different aspects of my son, right on down to his affection for scrawny, stray cats. We imitate life.
On a more serious note, an old friend of mine died not long ago. He was my age, my contemporary in every way. He was the first person I’ve lost who was of my generation. That reality has had a profound effect on me. Ever since I received that heartbreaking phone call, I spent a lot of time reflecting on people I once knew, those who have touched my life in one way or another, even if they are unaware of their impact on me. I can see bits and pieces of them in many different characters, which I might not have even been aware of when I created them. It’s comforting to realize that through my written word, part of them will always live on, at least to my way of thinking.
What is your take on the whole art/life imitation topic? Do you agree with Mr. Wilde that life imitates art? Or do you agree with me?
