Storytellersunplugged

“Write what you know” rings like a mantra in the ears of every aspiring writer to the point of becoming tedious and trite — don’t you think? As professional writers, if we’re any good at all, we write what we know as a matter of course; sometimes we go out and learn something new so we can write convincingly about it; and often, we pretend we know all kinds of things we really don’t but endeavor to pull off the trick anyway. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

What about those times when expressing to the world “what we know” might not be politic — but we -have- to write it, whether we want to or not? (I’m not talking about deadlines here.)

Each of us has his or her comfort zone, and like it or not, we usually work within it, even when we’re stretching the boundaries, flexing our literary muscles, pushing the envelope (Jeez, I hate that phrase; maybe I’ll delete it), and doing all that fine, challenging stuff we know we’re supposed to do as writers.

How hard is it to work outside the comfort zone . . . really?

I’ve always had the philosophy that anything and everything in life is fair game for transmuting into fiction. Especially when anything and everything is happening to someone else. But what about when that anything and everything crumbles right into your own lap? The idea of writing about it is appalling. It’s personal, it’s private, it’s nobody else’s business. But it has you where it counts and it won’t let go. I wonder: Is it indiscreet to delve too deeply into certain personal experiences or feelings to create a work of fiction?

Without touching on too many specifics, I’ll reveal here that in the last couple of years, I’ve pretty much learned the true meaning of helplessness. Both my wife and my daughter, the two people around whom my life revolves, have had their worlds pulled out from under them, in very different but drastically life-altering ways, and while this affects me profoundly, my ability to truly help — other than just to be there for them — is limited. Over the course of 46 years, I’ve largely learned to deal constructively with personal pain, but to be relegated to the sidelines when my loved ones are suffering deeply . . . I don’t think there’s much worse than that.

So there’s this market I want to crack, and I realize that if I dare to plumb these waters I know, I can pull together what I believe is a killer tale. But it’s so close to home, writing it might end up being hurtful to the people I least want to hurt. If I disguise things too much, the story loses its heart. But this is a writer’s challenge. So, I twist some situations, some characters, some personality traits . . . and write the piece that begs to be written.

For the first time in my writing career, as I was constructing the tale, I sat down with my wife and talked what I was writing — the whys, the wherefores, the alterations, the honesty in the prose. Fortunately, my wife has always been completely supportive of my work. She doesn’t read much of it as a rule, but at least she doesn’t begrudge me this little addiction. (How many of you writers aren’t so lucky?) On this occasion, she sees where I’m coming from — and understands my reticence. But all is well. I think.

I’ll find out if the story works if and when an editor picks it up. But whether it sells or not, it’s a story that, in my best judgment, needed to be written when it was written.

At Horrorfind, which I’ll be attending in August, I was originally considering reading a tale that came out in F&B Books’ OCTOBERLAND a few years back; it’s found receptive audiences at a couple of previous readings. But instead, I think I’ll read my newest. To anyone else, it’ll probably just be another horror story. For me personally, though, I think it shows a little more heart — in its own warped way — than the stories I usually turn out. I hope, if I’ve done my job as a writer, it’ll leave one feeling a little unsettled. Delusions of grandeur aside, I also like to think it might prompt somebody to pause, just for a moment, and reflect on how much his or her loved ones really mean to them.

Markets be damned, though, I truly, honestly wish this story had never been one that begged to be told.

–Mark Rainey