Well, that’s not me

. I was printing out some of my short stories this week, and I noticed something they all had in common.

They were all written in the first person, (which isn’t that unusual) and in all of them the narrator was male.

In fact, come to think of it, whenever I write in the first person, I write as man – young, old, modern, Victorian. When I do write as a woman, she’s either evil or insane.

I know some writers use themselves as the first person – they use writing to put themselves into situations they wouldn’t normally ever experience, or as wish fulfilment. (Jane Eyre is one of these).

I, apparently, am one of those writers who like to get into the head of someone completely different. I like to write from the perspective of someone I could never be – a man, or insane (hopefully I will never be that).

Maybe it’s a privacy thing – no matter how much I reveal of myself when I write, I can always say ‘well, that’s not me, that’s a man’.

Or perhaps I just don’t find myself very interesting.

Or perhaps – and this seems the most likely – I just really enjoy putting myself into someone else’s head for a while, and seeing the world the way they see it. That, to me, is fascinating.

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