How real do you want your fiction? No really, someone asked me that. When I stopped laughing, (Okay, I still haven't stopped laughing) I told them I don't want reality in my fiction. Why you ask? Well let's consider this, shall we?
Let's see. First off, I live reality every day. It's not all it's cracked up to be. Reality is weather and people and work and stress. On any given day, I wake up, I start the coffee, and I take a shower and reality proceeds around me with unrelenting realness.
Until and unless I escape reality by hiding in a book. You know, books...where sex is fun and no one really has to brush off the afterglow to get a towel afterward? Okay, that was bad. It's a privilege to get the towel or washrag; it's a sign of caring, tenderness and affection. Besides, failing to think of the towel ahead of time means you weren't really planning, now does it? Kind of blows your Boy Scout image. Anyway, the fetching of the wash rag has made its way into romance novels. Yippee. Let's stop there, huh? That's as real as I want it to be.
Reading, writing, gardening, walking, cooking, etc.