A work of fiction that charts events that could conceivably happen for real in the real world is, for me, pointless. I’d rather read about these events happening to real people in biographies, than follow the misfortunes of fake characters in tepid romances or colour-by-number crime stories.
So I write about ordinary people in incredible, fantastical situations, putting them up against awesome obstacles and seemingly insurmountable odds. And then I throw shit at them. As much bad shit as I can find. And when I run out, I find some more. Posing my protagonists challenge after challenge after challenge until they either break down or break out.