Last week I wrote the following:
I shared this thought with Maile, and she listened as I explained the “some kind of feeling” I had been having this year, how I wondered if I would ever write the novel I wanted to write, and then she paused, and she looked away, and she pursed her lips the way she purses her lips before saying something she doesn’t think I want to hear.
We have had these sort of heart-to-heart conversations about our writing before, but only selectively. Most of the time we know that what the other person needs is encouragement to keep going. But every so often, when we’re confident in our diagnosis and we know the other person is in a place to hear it, we’ll level some serious critique.
Once, a few years ago, Maile read a novel I had written in its first draft form, all 100,000 words of it, looked over at me with this same look, and said, “You really need to write this in third person.” It was in first person. This meant a complete rewrite. And not too long ago I read through one of her middle-grade manuscripts and pointed out some of the weaknesses I saw, weaknesses she eliminated in a rewrite that took her almost six months to finish.
When I realized Maile was about to come clean to me about something she felt my writing lacked, I was ready. I wanted to hear it. Sometimes, you’re not ready to hear criticism until you’ve tried everything else, on your own, and realize you’re desperate for an outside perspective.
“Sometimes your characters lack depth,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like they don’t have a backstory, that you don't even know their backstory. Your strongest stories have protagonists that look and sound like you because your backstory is their backstory. But I think if you got to know your characters better, your writing would be stronger.”
I nodded along as she spoke. This resonated with me. But I had something to add.
“I hear you,” I said. “And I think you’re right. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have a bigger problem than that.”
“Really?”
“Really. And that problem is that I care too much about what people might think of me when I write. I don’t know my characters well enough because often I start to find out things about them and what I discover makes me uncomfortable. I find out things I don’t think I have permission to write about. I’m worried people might think I’m disgusting or psychotic or a bad person.”
We stood there for a bit, both of us quiet.
“What would it look like for you to get to know your characters better and then to write whatever the story might be?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Makes me feel both excited and terrified.”
There are so many voices in my head when I write. My extended family looks over my shoulder offering their opinions. My kids, who are old enough to read my books, are there now, too, and I wonder what they will think. My previous readers are there, waiting for me to write something they’re not comfortable with so that they can start pointing fingers. And when I was writing books for a Christian publishing house, they were there, too: You can’t use that kind of language. That scene is definitely inappropriate. You’ll have to say that in a nicer way.
What would it look like for me to write without listening to these voices?
What kind of a book would I write?
Would anyone even want to read it?
Soon after my conversation with Maile, I read Outer Dark by Cormac McCarthy, one of my favorite authors. I loved his books The Road and The Border Trilogy. His writing is unapologetically slow, carnal, and violent.
After that I read The Secret History by Donna Tartt, who has a way of bringing you into unsettling situations with a kind of subtle storytelling that makes her books hard to put down.
I haven’t written any fiction at all since Maile and I had our chat. While I’m eager to start writing again, I’ll admit to some hesitation, even fear—that the challenge of writing without listening to the voices will prove too difficult, that I won’t be up to the task, that after years and years of writing with them on my shoulder, I won’t be able to get rid of them.
But I’m going to try.
How do the voices in your head keep you from doing what you want to do, whether in writing or business or anything else in life?
Things to check out:
Maile is offering a class over in our TSBU writer’s community. The class is called, “Writing Refresh,” and it’s for writers of any level looking to reboot their writing life (or discover one). Find out more and register HERE.
In the podcast this week, Maile and I talked about her telling me what is wrong with my writing. You can check that out HERE.
On Saturday I’ll be giving an update on my life without social media. This post will be for paying subscribers only ($7 / month). You can sign up for that here:
I want to read the dark stories of Shawn’s soul. Take the gloves off. Let the adults act like it. The world is not filled with saints.
I'm intrigued by Maile's suggestion to know your character's better and write their stories. I think I know my current MC pretty well, but how deeply could I know her, and would knowing her better change her story? Interestingly, I first wrote the preceding phrase "would knowing her better change MY story," indicating that I am (or think I am) in control of the story. I am, after all, a plotter. I went back and changed the words to "HER story." If I'm loosening my death grip on her story, will she now invade my reality and attempt to take over her own story, like the character Harold Crick in the film Stranger Than Fiction? (Shawn, if you and Maile haven't seen that film, it's a MUST for your first free evening.) I love that film!
And on another note: Is it possible to write real and raw if you have a Christian publisher? I'm reading Katherine James' Can You See Anything Now, published by Paraclete Press. Right there on page 13, the suicidal painter, Margie, thinks "She should do something with this, . . . a retrospective of suicide attempts, so fucking meaningful and so fucking stupid and so fucking futile." Well, there you go, Shawn. You can write your next novel envisioning Paraclete as your publisher!