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What I must always remind myself about those imperfect heroines I wrote of for so many years: they were always entirely fictional, a figment of my imagination alone.

If they came alive for me as I finessed each draft of a novel I once thought I would one day publish, I must acknowledge that those fictions were very far from any kind of reality.

In truth, my fiction was always pure escapism. Had I written down all that really occurred, we would not read of flawed but nevertheless relatable heroines. I’m not sure who would take their place. Certainly, I would never have embarked on recounting such tales.

As it is, it is these fictional heroines that came alive, and I suppose it is those I think of when I imagine them. Not any individual I actually ever knew, way back in the dim and distant past. In fiction we can invent whatever we desire.

If there is a genuine heroine in my life, then it is my beloved. Some might say that our meeting was stranger than fiction. Some might describe our paths crossed as the stuff of make-believe. Indeed, I too would struggle to believe it if I didn’t know it to be true.

We too are flawed just like characters on the page, very far from the virtuous characters we desire to be. Nevertheless, I do find it quite heroic that this woman from a world away embraced someone like me, and stuck with me through every test that life could throw our way.

This too has been written down, but not by a scribe like me. Every deed has already been recorded in a clear register by those who witness all things. No fiction here. Only reality.