Generally speaking, an author will take their life experiences and use them to shape the books they write. I've done this scads of times. For just one example, in Strength to Endure, when Claude and Liesl are taking a walk, that's totally taken from watching my husband take our baby daughter for a walk. We learn about the world around us through the things we go through and those things help enrich our writing.
But I've got a little problem.
Things I've written about have started happening in my life.
That's totally backwards.
When I first published Dearly Departed, in which my main character breaks her ankle, I got an e-mail from a reader who told me she was reading the book, put it down to go get her mail, fell off her porch, and broke her ankle. We had a good laugh about it, but broken ankles aren't so fun. I later ended up breaking a bone in my foot and got a cast and a wheelchair, and you'd better believe my readers thought that was pretty hysterical.
My book Secret Sisters is about a Relief Society presidency. When I wrote it, I had never been in a presidency before - I'd served on the board, but not the actual presidency. Well, this last June I was called to be the second counselor in my ward. That's right - I'm now a Tansy.
Both of these things are pretty funny coincidences, but I didn't think much of it until today. See, last night, a mouse ran out of my closet, turned around, and ran back in. My husband disabled it with a broom, finished the job with as gentle a knock with a hammer as he could manage, and then disposed of the body in the Dumpster.
Folks, I just described the first chapter of Taking Out the Trash,, which was published last year. Except in the book, the death occurred in the kitchen and there was no hammer involved.
So what does this mean? My books are coming back to haunt me?
Um ... I've written about murder ....