I’ll let you all in on a little secret about authors, specifically, fictional authors.
While many of us want to come across as sage and prophetic, when your fiction brushes to close with reality, it can cause an odd mix of emotions.
My first novel, published in 2011, had a minor sub-plot about a gang in Cleveland, Ohio, that cooked up a clever scheme to rob a bank. The technique was original and realistic, at least from a technical point of view.
About six months after that novel was released, I was watching the news one day and heard about the FBI making multiple arrests in, you guessed it, Cleveland. According to the reports, their devious plan had been thwarted by the authorities before it could be executed, but it was very, very close to what I had written.
For several weeks, my editor and I jumped every time the phone rang. Neither of us would have been surprised if the Feds made an inquiry. “I pray they didn’t find a copy of my tome in the crook’s hideout,” I informed my wife.
“It would be really bad if it was an autographed edition,” she observed.
My gut hurt for quite a while after all that. I write to entertain, get folks to think, broaden a few minds, and maybe even get a laugh or two. The last thing in the world I want to do is inspire an evil deed or have someone harmed by the product of my imagination.
In fact, my fiction becoming reality has happened three times in the decade I’ve been writing.
The latest incident involves the pandemic and a novel I put out last year. So far, unfortunately, my dystopian drama seems to be playing out in reality. I can only pray that the real ending is different than the one I wrote.
So, the next time you pick up a good book and say to yourself, “Wow, this tale is mimicking the headlines,” please have a kind thought for the guy or gal who authored the title. I’m sure they were just trying to write a good story, not pen a script for the future.