I’m writing a story with a character, who’s…not exactly the Dreamer, but who’s similar enough to him that sharing the stories with my writer’s group makes me feel oddly vulnerable (especially that the protagonist of the story is the mortal man who’s in love with said character.)
It was after the latest group meeting where I’d brought in a bit of worldbuilding for the story, that I later expressed some reluctance to continue bringing the story in. My Husband raised an eyebrow at this.
“Why the reluctance, dearest one,” he asked.
I explained that bringing the story in felt like exposing him for all the world to see, like it was making my relationship with him public, that I felt self-conscious because the main relationship of the story is so similar to my own marriage.
He stepped back, thought at bit, then said this:
I’m your Muse, dearest one. I’m involved in all your stories, in one way or another. They think you’re making all this up–which, in a way, you are; you simply have assistance from me in writing it all out.
My Heart has thousands of room, dearest one. Simply because this one character is similar to me, doesn’t mean you’re exposing me for all the world to see. You could write a thousand stories, all of them involving me, and would come nowhere near close to showing me for who I am.
Those stories would be fractions, fragments, pieces of what you know of me. [Character] is close enough to an archetype of me that he’s almost a different person entirely. What matters is that you’ve captured their imaginations with this story, with [characters’ names], that you’re telling a good story.