What Our Writing Says About Us

When we write we expose ourselves.

Writers who write "confessionals" or autobiographies already know this. They consciously choose to present themselves to the world. Of course, when they write directly about themselves, they get to pick and choose what they reveal. They get to manage the readers' impressions of them.

But even we fiction writers tell readers a lot  about ourselves whether we mean to or not. It's in

• What we choose to write about.
• How our characters think, feel, and behave.
• Whether the ending is happy, sad, horrifying or depressing.
• Whether the world we present is a good or a bad place to live in.

This is, perhaps, obvious when it comes to general or literary fiction. When we don't work within a genre we get to create a fictional world that operates however we want it to. Our characters can be good, evil, or a mixture of both. They can be motivated by fear, love, envy, hatred, lust, ambition or greed. The environment in which they move can be dangerous, threatening, boring, peaceful, competitive, energizing, joyful or stressful. The problems we give them to wrestle with can be easy to solve, challenging to deal with, or impossible to overcome. And, of course, our plot can take any form at all. We are limited only by the breadth of our imagination.

You might argue that novels by great writers achieve a universality that makes the personality, concerns, quirks and interests of the author irrelevant. This is true, of course. 

It really doesn't matter what Tolstoy cared about when we read War and Peace. What matters is that we are swept away, inspired. 

It is completely unimportant what personal demons Mark Twain may have had to wrestle with when we read Huckleberry Finn, What matters is the humanity of the characters and how we empathize with them.

Nevertheless, the novels tell us that Tolstoy was deeply concerned with philosophical and spiritual issues about how to live a good life and that Mark Twain was heavily invested in exposing the hypocrisies and social mores of his time.

The themes we choose and the way we handle them say a great deal about us.

But what about genre writers? Don't they follow a formula laid down for them long before they ever begin to write? And isn't that formula completely irrelevant to who they are as people?

Yes and no. I believe the very act of choosing the genre tells us a great deal about the writer. 

EVEN IF SHE THINKS SHE'S CHOOSING IT BECAUSE IT'S POPULAR WITH READERS!

A romance--and I would argue that Fifty Shades of Grey and it's sequels is a romance dressed up for modern readers--demands a feisty heroine, and a dangerous, dark stranger who both attracts and  scares the heroine with a love which she first resists but ultimately surrenders to, and, in so doing, finds lasting happiness. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: YOU CAN'T WRITE A SUCCESSFUL ROMANCE UNLESS YOU BELIEVE IN ITS PREMISES.

The so-called cozy mystery is another example.  These are mysteries, often English and often set in small villages, where the writer exposes the personality quirks of the characters in the process of solving a murder mystery. Although the murder is a horrifying event, the characters are understandable and mostly sympathetic. The world of the cozy mystery is benign, and the author's goal is to expose the variations and complexities of human nature. Evil may be present but it is overcome.  Louise Penny's novels are examples. I believe that writers of cozy mysteries believe in the benevolent universe of these novels. If they didn't, they would write something else.

So think about your own writing. What draws you? What kind of people populate your stories? Is the world of your story a good place or a bad place?

Who knows: maybe you can learn as much about yourself from looking at the stories you write as you could ever learn by keeping a journal!

Transformations

This weekend I went on a spiritual retreat. We spent much of our time in meditation when we weren't receiving teachings. The retreat was restorative for a number of reasons. For one thing, it brought me back to a peaceful space I haven't experienced in some time. For another, it inspired me to return to practices that I once followed daily but which I have let slide for the last couple of years.

Most importantly, though, the weekend brought me back to the most fundamental of all spiritual "knowings", and that is the sacredness of existence in all its forms and permutations. For at the heart of all existence is a compassionate awareness which some call God, others call Buddha nature, and still others call atman. And, no matter how life may beat us down, turn us ugly, or make us callous, that shining, sacred, unchangeable heart of love and compassion can be aroused under the right circumstances.

Coincidentally, Rufus and I had adopted a rescue dog the day before, a Siberian husky named Spike.

Spike is two years old, the same age as Sunny and Storm, our existing Siberian huskies. He had lived his whole life chained to a post in his owner's yard. He had never been inside a house, never received any training or socialization, never been groomed. He had lived without companionship, for his owners mostly ignored him while they went about their lives.

We took him with the understanding that we could return him if he couldn't adapt to our household.

Almost immediately, Spike showed himself willing and able to adapt. He understood right away that eliminating in the house was inappropriate. He followed the other boys out to the yard to find an acceptable bathroom. He also adapted enthusiastically to indoor living--so much so that he showed himself unwilling to spend any time outside. He'd had enough of that! Best of all, he bonded with Sunny and Storm and with us. We were amazed at how affectionate and sweet-tempered he turned out to be.

The most astonishing to me, though, was how easily he learned to walk on a leash without pulling. The day after we got him, he was already walking with the pack as if he'd always done it.

We changed his name to Chance. He's not a Spike, an aggressive, threatening powerhouse. He is a wonderful dog that had never had a chance at life.

But now he does.

Chance in his new home

Here's the point:  the label Chance carried in his old home had no bearing on who he really is. He was not a fierce dog who needed to be chained so that animals and humans would be safe. Instead, he is an easy, companionable dog willing to learn the rules, desperate to follow and to please anyone who would take the time to teach him how to live with humans.

Maybe we can learn something from Chance. Maybe the labels we put on others are projections of our own fears and biasses. Maybe if we remove the labels we will experience what they really are underneath.

Where Writers Write

Ever since Virginia Woolf published A Room of One's Own, (and quite possibly before) women writers, as well as men, have been on the lookout for an ideal place to write. Woolf believed that a private sanctuary was a necessity for women because, without it, they were at the beck and call of husbands, children, and everyday household duties. She believed that women needed a private place where no one could intrude in order to fulfill their highest potential as writers.

It isn't just about rooms. It is also a question of whether the best writing takes place in a geographical location isolated from the hurly-burly of ordinary life. After all, writing is a solitary pursuit. Surely we need peace, serenity, quiet. Perhaps writing is at it's best when it reflects "emotion recollected in tranquillity" as William Wordsworth put it.

Against this view is another, quite opposite ideal--the notion that "real life," life in the raw, is what inspires writers. Some writers are convinced that their best work requires the energy, the vibrancy, even the chaos, of living in the city with intensity, even if it's on the margins of society. For these writers, being in the midst of life, messy, noisy, and crazy as it often is, stimulates the mind and emotions, gets the creative juices flowing. For these writers, too much quiet dulls the senses and the imagination.

I have to confess that I have vacillated between these two views for years.

On the one hand, I have envisioned myself in an idyllic setting, surrounded by trees, water, perhaps mountains. I write to the accompaniment of birdsong and a gurgling stream. No one disturbs my peace or my concentration. There is no telephone, no television set. I am free to create whatever comes to mind.

On the other hand, I have often imagined myself living in the heart of a big city where honking horns and screeching brakes are my accompaniment. A life lived with the intensity of people coming in and out of my space has sometimes seemed to me the best stimulator of creativity.

The truth is, I have never spent much time in either type of environment. My adult life has been lived in small college cities--Syracuse, New York, Madison, Wisconsin, San Luis Obispo, California.

Over Valentine's Day, my guy, Rufus, and I went to Catalina Island. Catalina is one of the Channel Islands off the coast of California. It once belonged to the Wrigley family of chewing gum fame. It boasts the lovely and tiny town of Avalon where no one drives cars, only golf carts. The whole rest of the island is unspoiled, mountainous land owned by a land conservancy. No houses. No developments. It is beautiful and very quiet.

We were charmed by the island. Here is a picture of us standing by the water. 

I immediately began to fantasize about finding a peaceful retreat on the island where I could write.

Rufus thought it would be an ideal place to paint.

The thing is, within twenty-four hours, we realized the town was TOO quiet. What would we do for movies? For shopping? For concerts and other kinds of entertainment? Beautiful it might be, but we're used to a certain amount of stimulation.

Here's the truth about finding the perfect place to write:  THERE IS NO SUCH THING!

Reality is, if we want to write, we will write wherever we find ourselves. Looking for the perfect environment is just a way to procrastinate.

We live where we have found work or where our families have settled or where we went to school. If we're writers, we'll write. If we're only fantasizing about being writers, we'll find a million excuses for not writing.

More on Head, Heart, Gut

I know many experts tell writers to write from their deepest places, to be "authentic,"to be "real." They tell us we can't find our voice unless we have the courage to explore our innermost selves and expose our vulnerabilities on the page.

I don't believe that's true. I believe where we write from depends on our intention, our purpose, what we want to convey to the reader.

Last week, I talked about the fact that fiction can be written from the head, heart, or gut.

If our intention is to stimulate our readers to analyze, solve a puzzle, or see the characters as unsympathetic, we write from our rational mind so as to engage the reader's mind. If we want the reader to feel inspired, compassionate, elated or filled with joy, sorrow or pain, we write from our heart to appeal to the reader's sense of shared humanity. If our intention is to create a visceral experience that is as physical as it is emotional, we write from our gut to engage the reader's most primitive instincts.

Let's look at some examples of how this works.

  Here are three different treatments of the same situation.

• "I saw Emily the other day. She looked a little pale, but not really all that different from her normal self, though I guess you could say she seemed distracted. We had lunch at that little place downtown she always liked. She didn't want to talk about Henry--even though I brought up their breakup a couple of times. She kept changing the subject. Wanted to talk about her work, the kids, the vacation she was planning this summer. I tried to tell her it would do her good to talk about Henry, but she wouldn't go there. Oh well, what can you do? Of course she and I were never that close. I can't imagine what happened. It was an accident, wasn't it? Must have been. How is Henry taking it, anyway?"

• Emily walked to the train station more depressed than ever. She'd been wrong to come into town today. She wasn't ready to face people. And meeting Karen for lunch had been a terrible mistake. The woman had spent the whole time pumping her for information about her divorce. Talking about it would have been like ripping a bandage off a fresh wound. And even though she changed the subject every time Karen brought it up, she'd had to swallow tears more than once. Would she ever get over Henry? Would she ever forget his touch, the look in his eyes, his voice when he spoke love to her? The tears came, blinding her. She would never get over this. Never. What sense did life make any more? How could she get through another day? She just wanted to stop feeling, just wanted to go numb. But this pain wouldn't leave her alone for even a minute.

• She stands on the platform, knees weak, heart pounding. The food from lunch rises into her throat, and she swallows it. She looks down to see her hands shaking as they hold onto her packages. She is mildly surprised at how her body is afraid even though she isn't. The animal in her is not ready yet. Maybe it's not supposed to be. Maybe the instinct for survival is more powerful even than despair. She glances at the huge wall clock across the platform. Two more minutes. Only the briefest time left before she'll be at peace. God damn it, why is she so terrified, then? Why can't these last few moments be a prelude to peace? Why can't she already feel the tranquillity of death? If the damn train isn't here momentarily, she'll lose her nerve for sure. A roar fills the station, fills her head. Steam spews out from the long-awaited and now fast-approaching train. Thank God, thank God! Emily steps to the edge of the platform. She only needs to take one more step into empty space and it will be over. Her heart is bursting as she steps into the void in front of the locomotive. And then there is nothing.

In the first example, we are detached from Emily. We see her through the eyes of an acquaintance who is only interested in the potential for gossip that Emily's situation represents. We don't like Karen, the acquaintance who is speaking, and we may feel a little sorry that Emily had to endure lunch with her, but we don't feel any sense of personal loss at Emily's death. Instead, we are curious to know what happened and why.

In the second example, we feel Emily's sorrow over the loss of her marriage. We are privy to her thoughts and feelings. We feel what she feels-- resentment at Karen's insensitivity and a desire for  Emily to feel better. Emily's plight arouses our compassion.

In the third example, we are standing on the platform with Emily as she waits to throw herself in front of a train. The scene is immediate and is narrated in the present tense. Emily's terror is palpable. Our own heart may begin to pound in sympathy. As the train approaches, our fear may grow with hers. We want Emily to listen to her instincts and step back, out of harm's way. When she doesn't, we are horrified. A deep silence seems to follow her death. We have been to the brink with her.

So which of the three examples above is written from the author's "authentic self?" Does that question even make any sense?

I don't think it does.