I’ve been kicking myself over the last couple of weeks, trying to figure out how to connect with protagonist, Michelle, on a more personal level. Synthetic Empires’ overall story of a gay girl living within an authoritarian society was one that appealed to me on a personal level, yet started to feel a little too broad for my liking. I couldn’t quite shake the feeling that I was essentially inserting a version of myself into a more heightened version of our own society. Michelle was a surrogate for me, whereas the 2090s England I’d been building was an intensified retelling of modern-day Britain. Yet despite the similarities of this world, it wasn’t my own. Instead, my story was feeling a little more like a simulation of a potential tomorrow, not a direct reflection of the world I’m actually living in. I couldn’t shake the feeling that relying solely on an authoritarian landscape to generate drama was only getting me so far; allowing me to explore themes concerning bigotry, identity, and LGBTQIA matters without actually directly addressing my own immediate, real world struggles.

What I felt was missing from Michelle was a storyline that felt closer to home. I needed something specific to what was actually going on in her personal life. While there were certainly echoes of familiarity in the society I’d begun building, particular when it comes to reflecting modern day prejudices, this fictional world’s extremeness blurred that reflection. Something was missing, something that would root this story within my own present.

Be it through subject matter, themes or character arcs, one thing I’ve learnt in recent months is that my creative endeavours must be rooted somewhat in my immediate personal life. Whether it’s a breakup, a form of conflict, or a personal obstacle, if I can find a way to build it into my work, I usually garner better results. This is even the case when it comes to co-presenting my podcast show. If I can channel my daily struggles and thoughts into the film revies and analysis of a given episode, I often see my segments come to life in a way they rarely do when I’m not channelling similar ideas through a personal lens. Therefore, for Synthetic Empires to truly shine, I need to ensure it is telling a story about me. It needs to explore my here and now.

All of which spurred me on to engage in a spot of brainstorming the other week. It didn’t take too long for me to realise what it was that I truly wanted to explore and process in my novel; my own struggles surrounding self-loathing, as well as my past record of occasionally becoming attached to those who tend to be emotionally unavailable. Except I didn’t quite know how to feed these topics into a story that I already felt was beginning to balloon out of my control. I already had the callous futuristic society, the budding friendship between Michelle and Quinn, the introduction of a rebel gang, and Michelle’s troubled past hanging over my head. How was I going to fold ideas concerning troubled attachment styles and internalised shame into a draft already at risk of collapsing under its own weight?

Turns out I probably don’t need to worry as much as I’d initially feared. Upon taking a closer glance, I’ve noticed that these ideas already seem to have been embedded into my plot; lurking behind many of the words I’ve already written. My subconscious appears to have been laying the groundwork without my conscious self catching on. Ideas of guilt and ingrained oppression are present within nearly every chapter told from Michelle’s perspective. Her constant rejection of supportive characters, plus her unwillingness to engage in the world around her feeds directly into these ideas. I mentioned in a previous entry that I was worried Michelle’s habit of pushing people away risked alienating my audience. It turns out that this might be the thing that makes her all the more appealing. She is a character who has made herself emotionally unavailable due to the ghosts of her past, locking herself off from the world and rejecting those who attempt to make contact with her.

This presents two opportunities. First, it allows me to examine an emotionally unavailable character from their own point of view. Instead of this dynamic just being a source of my discomfort, I can explore it from the opposing side. The novel becomes a safe space for me to gain clarity and understanding; a vehicle to make sense of this behaviour from a different perspective.

The second opportunity is it gives me more to do with the character of Quinn. So far, the droid at the heart of this story has largely been a passive observer, an audience surrogate for 2090s London. Beyond this, however, I’ve been having a tough time trying to figure out what to do with her. Now, however, I think I know. She’s the available one being rejected by Michelle. Quinn represents the side of me wrestling with my attachment style. Michelle’s rejection of Quinn’s friendship becomes a core obstacle at the heart of my story, generating tension, particularly during the novel’s earlier portions. This essentially turns my story into a ale of two lost souls at odds with one another. It’s no longer just a tale about two minds attempting to flee a society not built for them; it’s about two protagonists learning to connect despite the pasts that haunt them.

What I find fascinating about this realisation is how all of this was already written into my characters. For weeks, my brain has been whirring away in a state of panic, trying to figure out what one earth was missing. The answer, it would appear, is not that much. The story I wanted to tell has been lurking within the words of my initial draft this entire time. As I’ve been grappling with real-world issues that I was avoiding in my art, my subconscious has been leaking these notions into my faction all along. I just couldn’t see it.