There’s a dilapidated cardboard box in my storage room that’s full of my diaries. The oldest is a tiny, gilt-edged relic from the 80s, with a lockable clasp. I’m sure you can picture it. They’re not in vogue any longer, but once upon a time they were easily found in supermarkets and newsagencies (which themselves are not easily found any more). The newest diary is an A4, spiral bound notebook, thick and heavy – a good swinging weapon, in a pinch.
I began keeping a diary in primary school, continued through high school and into my early twenties. When I had my children, I reinstated the practice, keeping a sporadic journal of their first year. There’s lots of notes about breastfeeding and nap times…
I share this as a way to note: I haven’t always been writing fiction, but I’ve always been writing. It’s an instinctual habit, an ingrained outlet for me, and has taken different forms over the years. I studied journalism and had a short stint with my hometown newspaper. In my spare time, I wrote opinion pieces, short stories and columns. When social media emerged, I was an early adopter. I created a blog in 2009, keeping it for a decade. I self-published three novels, and now I have two traditionally published (The Rush and Barren Cape).
The diaries have a special place, of course. They’re time capsules which have archived the naivety and innocence of ten-year-old Michelle, and twenty-one-year-old Michelle. I haven’t opened them in many years. They’re not always pretty reading. There are childhood memories I’d like to avoid, particularly since I became a parent. And then there are the young adult years, with all their electricity and promise and mortifying behaviour.
Sometimes, I think I’d like to throw the diaries away. Sections are embarrassing. Shameful. What a hardheaded, impetuous and risk-taking person I was.
But the diaries do have value. They contain important lore.
And they remind me of the many different characters I have been.
In this way, the stories in my diaries can inform the character development in my novels. My characters are not based on me, but they’re based on fundamental truths about humans. We have a public-facing persona and a private one. People change over time. We make flawed, impetuous decisions. We make choices that fly in the face of commonsense.
Occasionally, a reader will question one of my character’s decision-making. They’ll rail against an immature decision from Hayley in The Rush, for example. It makes me wonder if these readers have forgotten their own rash periods. Perhaps they only know and associate with people who are sensible, patient and grounded. That’s not my world.
Besides, thrillers wouldn’t be thrillers if they were populated only with wise and rational characters. There would be no risk, drama or dilemma, only people following safe and ordinary routes between work and home.
My life would be lacklustre and uninspiring if I’d done the right thing at every stage. Like flawed characters, my diaries have a place. Even if they remain unopened.
More info here.
Michelle Prak will be speaking at Sisters in Crime’s panel, Desperate times, desperate measures, Friday 18 July, 8:00 pm, Rising Sun, 2 Raglan St., South Melbourne. Booking details to come.