The Writer 10.2019

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considered a perfect fit for the novel’s

mood. But as I pushed through the

first several thousand words, I saw the

cracks in what I knew. There was no

way I could build a realistic world

around a place I’d only traversed as a

one-time tourist. The resulting product

would be inauthentic or, worse, offen-

sive to true San Antonians.

I trashed the setting and uprooted

my characters to my hometown:

Columbia, Missouri. Except I was

soon presented with another problem.

The magical realism of my book, and

the nefarious secrets hidden in the set-

ting’s restaurants and small businesses,

didn’t seem accurate to my true vision

of Columbia. I didn’t want readers

thinking I looked upon my birthplace

with derision or despair. True, I have

critiques of the college town I call

home, but, in the context of the book,

they came out more scathing than

soul-searching.

Finally, it was time for Plan C: A fic-

tional setting. I’d create a college town

in Missouri, but one with details that

differed from Columbia. I’d draw from

memories and beloved childhood

landmarks to make this place authentic

to the area, but the feel of the town and

its distinguishing features would be all

their own.

As straightforward as it might seem,

fictionalizing is a messy business. You

start with something real, then infuse

it with the un-real, but leave behind

enough bits of the real to convince

readers you’re as close to real as the un-

real gets. Still with me?

The process only gets more compli-

cated when you fictionalize something

But wait. What if this were home: A

main street called Littleton rather than

Broadway. An indie bakery hidden not

inside a theater but, perhaps, inside a

museum. Or, consider this: Columbia

underwent a seismic controversy over

race on the University of

Missouri campus in 2015,

but what if, instead, a

debate around identity

had sparked in 2020, dur-

ing the re-election campaign

of Donald Trump?

I wouldn’t be writing about Colum-

bia, no. Not the real one, anyway. But it’d

be something like Columbia – a fiction-

alized version tweaked to fit a different

world, one tailor-made for a novel.

This is the conundrum I faced

when I started revising my first book, a

draft I’m still rewriting, recreating, and

rethinking every day. I originally

started by placing my characters in San

Antonio, a city I’d visited once and

T

his is home: the scratch of dewy grass, barely
alive after the heat of summer, still sharp and
squelching from morning and evening sprinkler
sessions. Roads and hills rise and fall like unsteady
breaths. In Columbia, Missouri, a short drive from
the Missouri River, the short downtown strip of Broadway is
dissected by stoplights, which the college students love to
jaywalk after a cheap pitcher at one of several storied sports
bars. Faurot Field, the football stadium, is typically holy
ground this time of year, though lately the team’s struggled to
fill seats. There’s a steakhouse gem in a strip mall and an
indie bakery stuffed inside the arthouse cinema. This is home,
my indefinable home, one of those mid-size Midwestern
towns not always at ease with its own identity.

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