"The Armour of Fiction Versus the Sword of Reality": My Creative Writing Dissertation

By Kimaya Tushar Patil

Hi! I'm Kimaya, I'm 22, and I've recently been awarded my MA in Creative Writing from the University of Leicester. I'm originally from the city of Pune, in India, and I graduated from Fergusson College with a BA in English Literature in 2024 (2:1).

My final dissertation for the MA was a prose-based Creative Writing project which highlighted the political turmoil we face in a society that manipulates information to control and divide its citizens, and how we, as recently inducted adults, learn to navigate this chaos on finding ourselves in such an uncertain environment. For my dissertation, I submitted the first six chapters of the first book of what I have planned to be a trilogy.

My undergraduate project had to be done in a group and was purely research based (we applied Allen Tate's "Theory of Tension" to Dante's Inferno), so I was glad to have free rein this time around, as my Master's dissertation allowed me to combine research with my original work. 

The themes of my work were inspired by the current world events unfolding in the previous and ongoing decade. We have been through so much as a society; battling precarious geo-political conflicts, global pandemics, and corrupt leaderships. And yet, in spite of all the chaos, we are trying to not only persevere, but to find ourselves as we enter a new stage of life. My submission focused on the themes of 1) individual morality vs. social indoctrination, 2) identity and belonging, and 3) the construction of a false reality through propaganda and class division. 

As for the genre, while never having worked with fantasy before, it was the only one that felt right to be able to bear the weight of the themes being explored. It gave me the chance to probe further into these issues. My book would be classified in terms of the newly popular "New Adult" category, in the genre of political-fantasy with a romantasy sub-plot. The "New Adult" category is fairly recent development, and usually falls between the "Young Adult" and "Adult" categories, aiming for audiences between 18-25 years of age. 

The first book follows 22-year-old Oriana Seravelle, as she navigates her life as a new adult. As the adoptive daughter of the decorated army General of Elydris, Oriana has big shoes to fill. Between training and honing her ability to wield shadows, and her ageing father retiring soon, she is trying her best to be worthy of his legacy. Just when her father agrees to let her take on some more serious responsibilities, she comes across a mysterious stranger who threatens to turn her world upside down. 

During my dissertation I found myself struggling with scene edits, as well as stylistic edits. With scenes, I often struggled to maintain the delicate balance between mystery and revelation. I also often spent too much time focusing on minute details of particular scenes. I have learned, though, that it is best to know just enough about a scene to make sure it can be converted into a rough draft. That way there is at least something to edit later. 

Here are a few general tips for writing at university I feel I've picked up along the way:

• Write whatever you can. It doesn't matter if it is 50 words or 500. It does not necessarily have to be a perfect draft.
• Perfect drafts are a MYTH. And imposter syndrome is real, although it is good to remind yourself that you have your own unique timeline to accomplish your goals!
• Go through your curriculum well before your classes begin and email your tutors in case of any queries. (They are always happy to help you!)
• While navigating the busy schedule of a post-graduate degree, organisation is key! (Don't be shy to use that note-taking app, and the scheduling calendar. They are lifesavers).

Below, you can read a short excerpt from my MA Creative Writing Dissertation.

 

From Chapter Two

The moon is high by the time I make my way across the town and to the outskirts near the cliffs. The Fortress is a daunting structure in the distance. Its security is second best, only to its geographical advantage, which makes it inescapable, by foot or by water. Hewn from stone, the structure is deeper than it is taller, overlooking the steep drop to the jagged shoreline and deep waters below. 

Shadows dance along the walls as I climb the steps to the entrance. The two stationed guards exchange skeptical looks, but let me pass after handing me the roster of the cells. The darkness seems to close in the deeper I go, the dampness of mildew coating my senses in an invisible cloak. The sound of my boots is the loud compared to the occasional groan or yell coming from a distance. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the light that flickers from the carved hollow quartz stones, placed upon unevenly distanced sconces. I make sure to double-check every name and locking mechanism on each of the holding cells as I move deeper into the fortress. 

About forty cells in, the Fortress goes quiet; too quiet. I move cautiously, drawing a blade from its sheath, and take a left at the upcoming junction. I see something move in the shadows out of the corner of my eye. I turn around to find hollow darkness, but I sense someone standing in the shadows. There is more than one person here. Not guards. 

Frances Evelyn, "The Traitor Within"

Frances Evelyn writes real-world fantasy set in Leicestershire and Rutland. The third instalment in the bestselling The Changeling Tree series, The Traitor Within, is due for release on the 31st of October.

Readers have described The Changeling Tree series as ‘intriguing,’ ‘mesmerising,’ ‘amusing,’ ‘scary,’ ‘wonderful’ and ‘sublime’: ‘high fantasy meeting Jane Austen.’ The first three books (of five) are available in paperback, as e-books, and free via KindleUnlimited. More details about her books, freebies and competitions are available on her website and via social media.

Frances was born in Coventry and studied English in Manchester and London. She worked in higher education before becoming a full-time author. She’s an experienced editor and proof-reader, and offers proof-reading services to other indie authors in exchange for their support in promoting her books.

Frances Evelyn is a pen name. 

About The Changeling Tree Series

Rose Watts travels in time. Her mum and gran do too. So why didn’t they warn her? And why did they lose touch?

In The Changeling Tree, Mike’s girlfriend, Tracy, has been missing for months without a word. He’s sure her mum knows more than she’s telling, but he can’t live in limbo forever. He’ll make one last attempt before trying to move on. 

It’s the night of the winter solstice. Tracy’s house is dark and deserted, but there’s a pram in the garden, and inside the pram is a baby. 

To protect her throne, Queen Annis (remembered as Black Annis in Leicester legend) must bring human misery to the court as an antidote to the tedium of endless joy. Neither she nor her challenger have any sympathy for the humans caught up in their game: Tracy, her daughter, Rose, and Rose’s gran, Peggy.

In The Time Before, Rose moves in with her gran, following Tracy’s death. Determined to travel back in time and save her mum, she finds herself instead in 1941, where she’s evacuated to the coast with Peggy. They discover an impossible door that doesn’t lead outside, and when they go through it, they’re torn apart.

The third book in the series, The Traitor Within, sees Peggy re-appearing a year after she left, when everyone has given her up for dead. Her mother’s delighted of course, but it would have been easier for everyone else if she’d never come back.

Meanwhile, Rose is in the eighteenth century and far from home. She needs to get back to Leicester and find her mum, but highwaymen aren’t the only dangers on the roads.

Below, you can read an extract from The Traitor Within. 

Fom The Traitor Within

... Rose has been walking all day and takes shelter for the night among some trees near the road. Her thoughts are interrupted by a conversation nearby:

The first voice was male: not quite a boy, but not yet a man.

“Is it coming?” he asked.

“I can hear it,” answered a man’s voice. “You know your part?” 

“Yes,” said the first. “I’ll not let you down.” 

Leaves rustled and twigs snapped as they moved away. 

“Your face, you fool,” hissed the man. “Cover yourself.”

Hooves pounded the road and wheels rattled over stones and ruts. As they came level with Rose’s hiding place, she heard horses whinnying and a man cursing. The carriage stopped a little way past her.

“Hold the bridle,” hissed the man and then, in a louder voice, “You sir. If you’d be so kind as to climb down.” 

With grumbles, wheezes and creaks, a heavy man came down from the driver’s seat. 

“On the floor, there’s a good chap,” said the highwayman. 

Rose craned her neck to peer through the undergrowth. The coachman lowered himself to the ground, groaning as he knelt then lay, face down. The highwayman, with a scarf over his nose and mouth, was holding a pistol loosely between his fingertips. Rose knew what to do in these situations. Run. If you can’t run, hide. If it’s safe to do so, call for help.

She was out of sight already, so the safest thing was to stay where she was, except they weren’t far away, and they’d easily see her if they looked closely. She might need to run if it came to it, so slowly, carefully, she untangled her legs from the cloak, rustling dry leaves with every movement. 

She could hear the coachman breathing, she was that close, but he was breathing heavily, she assured herself. He was scared and out of shape. He must be making more noise than she was. As she raised herself to a crouch, the highwayman turned towards her and Rose froze in a squat among the shadows of the trees. After a while, he shrugged and turned away, leading his horse to the door of the carriage, and Rose breathed out. 

“Open up,” he shouted, rapping with the butt of his pistol. “Forgive the cliché, but … your money or your life.”

The occupants whimpered and swore, but they opened the door and, one by one, their valuables clinked into the highwayman’s sack.

“And the rest,” he said, with a bored rattle of his bag. “Though I can assure you I wouldn’t object to undertaking a thorough search of these young ladies. Not so much you, madam, but your daughters really are lovely.”

The ladies twittered in delighted outrage. Rose couldn’t see him clearly, but the highwayman’s charisma was evident even from this distance.

A man’s voice said, “You’ll hang for this, you dog.”

“It seems pretty unlikely, to be honest,” said the highwayman. “But I’m certainly not willing to be hanged for half of your valuables. I may as well shoot you if I’m to hang anyway, don’t you think? Come on. I haven’t got all night.” 

The next time he spoke, his voice was petulant. 

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” 

More treasures were surrendered, more threats made, until the thief was content. He fastened the booty to his saddle and doffed his feathered hat with a flourish.

“Thank you, ladies, gentlemen. A great pleasure doing business with you. Apologies for any inconvenience, and my very best for your onward journey.” 

Replacing his hat, he swung himself on to his horse. 

“It’s been special,” he said, with a hand to his heart.