In a short sorry I’m writing a character walks along Greenwich Avenue and spots a rooftop water tank.
A conversion ensues with his girl about a childhood memory.
I recently visited the location to determine where the building with said tank would be. Currently such a building does not exist.
I stood. I looked. I argued with myself. Then I remembered. It’s fiction. I can write anything I want.
That’s the beauty of the form. The ability to take liberties.
It’s all in the details