Making Fiction From Personal Experiences

I’ve always believed that writers inevitably draw from what they know, and that this is one of the most powerful ingredients in creating art that feels relatable, personal, and unforgettable. Our firsthand experiences, the stories we’ve lived, and the stories we’ve heard all accumulate into a private archive of human moments. Even when we think we’re inventing something entirely new, we’re often unconsciously reaching into that archive. After all, what are novels if not explorations of human experience?

 

For me, the plotting stage is where this truth becomes most vivid. It’s the part of writing I enjoy the most, the moment I’m fully present in my characters’ lives. When I imagine scenes, I’m not just conjuring images out of thin air; I’m drawing from memory, from sensations I’ve known, from moments that shaped me.

 

When I was working on A Perfect Suspect, I made a pivotal decision about a character’s fate based on something I witnessed as a child, something I’ve never forgotten.

 

In the mid‑90s, during the height of Abacha’s dictatorship in Lagos, I saw a scene that has stayed with me far longer than I expected. I was returning from an errand when I noticed a crowd, about fifty people, mostly young men with a few women, running toward me from a distance. They were shouting “Ole! Ole! Ole!” (“Thief!” in Yoruba). It wasn’t unusual in Lagos at the time, so instinctively I looked for the person they were chasing.

 

About fifty yards ahead of the mob was a boy, exhausted and terrified, running with whatever strength he had left. Like many others, I stepped aside to watch. He stumbled, or perhaps his legs simply gave out. He didn’t try to get up. It was as if he had accepted the inevitable.

 

Lying on the ground, he raised his hands and begged for mercy.

 

No one listened.

 

The first man reached him and struck him with a plank. Another arrived and hit him again. More joined in. The women, arriving last, threw stones from behind, some hitting the boy, some hitting the men in front, but no one seemed to care. At some point, those of us watching could no longer see the boy at all. We could only hear the blows and the shouts, and the murmured accounts of how he had supposedly stolen something from a shop four streets away. No one had stopped to ask what he took or whether he truly took anything. He ran, and that was enough to condemn him.

 

I wouldn’t say the memory haunts me, but it returns more often than I’d like. And it wasn’t until I finished writing A Perfect Suspect that I realised how closely that childhood memory echoed a character’s fate in the book. We write what we know, even when we don’t realise we’re doing it.

 

This weekend, I’ll be joined by Peace Anazodo for a live conversation on Making Fiction from Personal Experiences. Peace is the author of You Can’t Sit With Them, a moving story about a young orphan girl newly arrived in the UK from Nigeria, struggling to find belonging among childhood friends who have outpaced her in life after the loss of her father. At a recent event, Peace mentioned that her novel was inspired by her own experiences, and I knew she was the perfect person to explore this topic with me.

 

Date: 18‑01‑2026

Time: 17:00

 

The event will stream live on YouTube and Instagram, and will remain available to watch afterward.

Use the form below to register and join the conversation.