It seems, in the wake of my latest fiction offering over at Nephelokokkygia, that one of the smattering of remaining followers of that blog has withdrawn. It is, of course, entirely the choice of the individual whether to follow my, or any other, blog, and whether to terminate that affiliation. Over the three years or so I've been in cyberspace, I've 'unfollowed' maybe two or three blogs, for reasons which seemed valid to me in the particular circumstances concerned. Why I'm commenting on this topic now, though, is that there still seems, because of the subject matter I write about most commonly, to be a dissonance in some minds around the boundaries of fiction and reality. Because Thomas Harris has written about the crimes of Hannibal Lecter, it doesn't make him a serial killer, and, indeed, because Shakespeare wrote about eyes being gouged out in King Lear and Titus Andronicus, it doesn't mean he was some kind of psychopath roaming the streets of Elizabethan London doing that very thing - not, I hasten to add, that I'm remotely comparing my literary abilities to either of those august figures. Apart from one specifically autobiographical story, Beached - and even that one had numerous details fictionalised - all the fiction I've posted in Nephelokokkygia is exactly that, fictional, completely a product of my imagination, not some thinly veiled description of activities I've taken part in, in real life. I'm fully aware that what I write is very unlikely to appeal to everyone, or, in some cases, anyone at all apart from me, but that doesn't mean I'm guilty of anything beyond having a vivid imagination.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
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