Developing a Fictional World, Not So Different From My Own

Typically stories have a beginning. A strong start to grip the reader into a metaphorical chokehold. Luring them in slowly, quickly, or sharply. There are many examples of this in literature and the way you start your story determines how the rest of the sequence will carry on.

Then the middle creeps upon the reader, and it is firmly in their grip until they get to a plot reveal. Words and words build up to formulate a cocktail of fantasy for someone to be caught up with. Eventually causing what they thought was true to be slowly spun away from them.

Finale comes around all too quick from there on. Your character is either left to gather their remaining strength and conclude the book. Or you can be cruel and leave everything on a cliff hanger. With little to no explanation.

During my life I have had a lot of experience in reading and understanding how stories work. Granted most of my life seems like some sort of made up sci-fi novel; everything is not quite as it seems and I am left bemused. I have spent a lot of time reading, picking up a paperback (or hardback...) and being immersed into a world either centuries away from my own or literally on my doorstep.

The ultimate distraction to the current world view I live in is sometimes seemingly a lot more palatable than what I am faced with in reality.

I have often wondered what kind of fictional characters would make of my life. Medical dramas and novellas would have a field day with my history and I guarantee I would end up correcting their incorrect diagnoses. It would not be long before even they would think like most of my consultants and say "Yeah they are a bit complex".

It is not uncommon for me to look at my life from a entirely different point of view, to live some other-worldly fantasy rather than reality.

Hence why just shy of nine years ago I wrote a book. It did not even exist one day and then the next it just appeared in my mind. A flurry of ideas, then a snowstorm. At the time I was doing a project-based qualification and needed something to be the soul and main focus to pass. I remember the research and intensity around it, but not much of the actual "doing". There was a lot of indecision, mostly because it was a nine month commitment and I am very easily distracted... However, a passing comment popped straight into my ears and stuck in my brain.

Write a story.

My assumption now, is this person meant 500 to 1000 words with a good premise. Simple and easily obtainable within the time limit. Not what I presented which was a fully self-published novella with shy of 25,000 words and 107 pages.

The book was based on a semi-fictional (adding the semi because some parts are lived experience of my own) character who was diagnosed with Leukaemia just before Christmas. Because I thought that would add salt to the wound, as well as leave a chapter hanging on a major plot point. She then goes on a family holiday and meets a boy who has Neuroblastoma (a cancer I had) and they end up in a "will they? won't they?" relationship throughout the rest of the book. Curveballs thrown, concepts of near death all come to a tumultuous ending of a wrapped up finale.

Again I was a drama queen, and fourteen when I wrote it.

Best to say I shocked when a lot of people saw it, loved it and it became bigger than I ever anticipated it would be. This tiny little project was now of a interest to tens of people, who wanted to read it as well.

Once it was self-published it was available for everyone to read. And that is when my brain got caught hook, line and sinker. I latched onto the story and started drafting the second instalment mere months after the first was finished and sent to the printers. It was a little side-project I undertook, with no restrictions or time limits this time. Plus I even expanded on the story adding more detail here and there. There was even a point where I posted the first chapter online for people to view and garner interest.

And then radio silence.

Everything just came to a halt.

Eventually I finished the book in private. Closed the story and put it through various edits of my own. But ultimately I lost the passion I once had. So I shoved it as far away as I could and forgot about it.

The problem was when I wrote the first book it was at a turning point in my life. I was not going through the same teenage years my peers were. My body was shooting through menopause (from the cancer treatment I had received) and I felt disgusting. In every sense of that word.

I am not ashamed in saying that, because my mind was riddled with confusion. Back then instead of ordinary hormones going crazy, mine did nothing. No typical puberty onset, just straight through the tunnel to peri and then menopause.

My friends at the time were all discussing crushes on boys and fantasy adulthood on the horizon. Comparing everything about each other, what they liked and did not.

Meanwhile my mind was in the darkest pits of hell, my body was screaming every time I so much as had a hot flush or moved my joints. I hated it. Hated my body, hated how I felt and hated how I had to lie to everyone around me about what was going on.

I constructed a story based on how I thought I wanted part of my life to look like. The girl gets the boy, la la la, everyone is happy. The end.

Reality was a lot more difficult. No one was like me, no one I knew was a raging menopausal teenager with suicidal thoughts. No one I knew was looking at their body with confusion and anger why it was not like everyone else's. No one I knew was constantly worried or questioning why people were obsessing over boys, and find themselves picking one, at random, poor guy to be my crush. When in actuality I did not want a boyfriend. I could not imagine anything on earth worse.

So I stuck the book on my hard drive, buried it in my wardrobe for three years and only really looked back at it during the COVID lockdowns. By this point in my story, I was at college and doing virtually doing nothing. Summer started in the March and my break consisted of reading, working on pre-reading for my next term and worrying if the world was going to end. I remember finding the document of the second book, while moving some photos off my phone, and decided since I had nothing else to do I would work on it.

And it hit me. The more I looked through it, the less potential I saw. The less I liked it, the less I wanted it in my life. That life did not exist anymore and I am not sure it ever did in the first place. I spent days doing alterations, making changes and finally deciding to abandon it altogether.

It was not who I was. It was not authentic.

People asked, of course, about it as my prior self had released the first chapter eons ago, so I lied. Telling people "Maybe one day!" or "I am definitely considering it!" with a laugh that never reached my eyes, before changing the conversation entirely. I never liked telling people about the book or getting praise for it, because it just did not sit naturally with me anymore.

Where does this all fit in? Well after years of writing a blog and doing vlogs for YouTube I came to the realisation that I was never straight at all. And chose to come out publicly to put an end to all of the infinite questions.

"You got a boyfriend yet?"

"You dated yet?"

"Are you putting yourself out there?"

I was tired of lying. The complexity of the web that I had built to protect me was constricting around my body. I was terrified of never being able to be who I am, because of prejudice. People just not believing my words.

So I filmed a video detailing my bare soul, edited it, published it and completely ignored my social media for half a day. I remember being so itchy and terrified about the potential hatred I was get from it. People shocked that I had come out at the fine age of seventeen. How did I know? What if I change my mind? Blah, blah, blah.

I always knew. Deep down I always knew I was not like everyone else. I remember going into Waterstones when I was fifteen and buying two subtle LGBTQ+ books to read, and being absolutely terrified of being caught with them. I bought them, hid them in my rucksack and went home to read them discreetly. One of those books changed my life as a young queer teenager, who was terrified at what was wrong with me. Why was I not like other people?

That book I hear you ask? The book was Love, Simon by Becky Albertalli (also known as Simon vs The Homosapiens Agenda). At the time it had just been adapted and released into a film; so the book seemed like a good place to know the story better. I always preferred the book over a film anyway. Little did I know how much I would soon realise why the story struck a chord in my soul.

Cancer physically and mentally pushed me away from a lot of people, and it was only when I went to college I realised what else was going on in the background. Being around other people who were diverse, out loud and proud about it, just felt like a home coming.

My brain tried to protect me for years. Put me to one side and coax me into lying here and there, just to keep the peace. But overtime I was exhausted by it all. I was exhausted at shutting myself away because of someone else's possible opinion of me not being correct.

Eventually, I remembered to turn on my phone and looked through the responses to my post. Fair to say I was very lucky as pretty much every response was overwhelmingly positive. I hate that I have to say I am lucky because that happened, because I know so many people who were not as blessed as I was. In this modern world why is straight default? When history proves that it has inherently always been different since the dawn of time.

Since that moment I realised I never wanted to hide myself away again. My core identity should not impact anyone but myself. I learnt that people will disagree with your mere existence, which has caused one too many arguments (most of which I still continue to this very day...hehe), but you should not stop being yourself because of their hatred.

Once the video had done its round I was asked if I could have it shown on the local pride celebration for that year. It was the first time an event like that was happening, plus it was digital so anyone could watch it during the pandemic. And just like that my video was livestreamed and advertised over social media garnering more love and support than I ever realised could be possible.

Since then I have been a proud advocate for my community and I will not back down from a fight. Especially if someone is woefully misinformed...

But, and there always is one. When I came out of my metaphorical flatpack IKEA wardrobe, I realised that I did not have to stop writing because my previous book/s were from a time of darkness. Which is why I took up my blog more, as well as writing in countless journals, notebooks and the notes app on my phone (because I am extremely forgetful).

It was only in March of this year that I realised how much I love reading books, but also this deep urge to write something myself. My biggest inspiration in the literary world is Samantha Shannon and Rick Riordan, among many other fantasy writers. I have always found their books a escape route to a world of intrigue and wonders. So on my birthday I got gifted a notebook. A pristine purple notebook covered in mushrooms, flowers and moon phases. I decided that was going to be my writing book.

The described notebook with cartoon purple-cap mushrooms, pink flowers, brown and green leaves and different moon phases spread around. The shelf it is on holds the rest of my current TBR.

Ideas started to flow and I wrote them down. Characters, possible storylines, details and plots. Granted the first round of writing and plans looked a lot different, than a few weeks after they were written and subsequently re-written. A small seed grew one leaf, then another and soon a whole field of inspiration grew.

I had hit something of excitement and joy for the first time in ages. I was delirious and determined to undertake this as a project for my summer.

So once I had finished my final university exam, rested for a few weeks and nearly bored myself sideways, I opened a blank Word document. And so it began.

My document with page numbers 37 of 37 written and 8888 words written.

My tiny fantasy went from pages of my notebook to pages and chunks of data on my laptop. It took up my every waking thought, always wanting to better the story; add more detail and lengthen chapters. Building these small characters into diverse people that I could envision and see in front of me. Looking around me for inspiration and ideas. Every outing locally became research, every Google search was now understanding history of items and places. Taking pictures of obscure locations, forgotten sign posts, street lamps and buildings with no windows.

I basically spent six weeks engulfed into finding out everything humanely possible to get the details just right. Focusing on intricate details and visualisations just to understand how something would work. Going back and forgetting people's names and re-writing it because it needed to be perfect. Can you tell I am also a perfectionist?

At the current time of writing this post on the 22nd of August 2025 I am literally pages away from the book being finished. A first draft nearly finished. All about a story of characters who are diverse, disabled or LGBTQ+ (because god forbid I write another straight romance like the last..).

I know a lot of people say "they see potential" in certain things, which amazingly sounds like a line off a talent show. However the more I write this book and obviously edit it, I find the more I want to see it be a finished product. Not just stuck collecting dust on a hard drive.

So I present to you my pitch.

Living in a modern dystopia in Kent are mystical supernatural and witchcraft communities; being forced out of the shadows into an uprising because of a authoritarian leader who rules the country with a iron fist. The land and occupations are split into two factions; Protected and Unprotected. Jobs are labelled as either one and a Protected faction could be the difference between steady a pay check or ousting locals. Anything that falls into the Unprotected faction is not aided or approved by the leader, and they are left to fend for themselves.

Our main character is right in the middle of it all, they are struggling to come to terms with her best friends unexplained death and understanding how to navigate the grief amidst brewing chaos. Accompanying her is a small delirious corgi who is the epitome "has only two brain functioning cells" and can telepathically talk to her. You can imagine the conversations...

In the background our main character works in a underground community space called "The Crypt" to aid medical assistance to people who cannot risk persecution to get help they desperately need. Working alongside merchants, herbalists, distillers and vendors they are trying to fight a never ending battle of patients who need urgent assistance and the coping with struggle of being Unprotected.

Soon unexplained kidnappings of locals start to gather attention and our character has to make a big decision. Does she lock the doors and turn a blind eye to these disappearances that could lead to her being next? Or does she fight for what she knows is ethically right, risking it all with only spite and a couple of outcasts alongside her?

Oh and it also includes local history (thank god for local libraries!) because any inspiration and research is needed has to be here. History around us is a treasure trove!

Anyway so that is a brief description of what it has in store.

At the moment, this story is only just beginning. Who knows where it will end?

Molly-Tastic Treves