Getting in touch

I’ve been told to write from my pain. It gives the words a certain strength that might otherwise be ignored. It also supposedly gives the words credence. I guess the idea is that my pain drives the deeper part of me. The part that I need to nurture and show true self love for.

I have been to enough events with real ‘getting paid’ writers to know which ones are writing from their pain(or heart if you prefer) and which aren’t. When you read a story, you can tell if the author is being honest or not. When the author isn’t honest, the story rings false. Even if you can’t immediately identify the problem, something about the whole tale is empty.

One of my favorite authors, Stephen King, typifies this way of thinking. In the scheme of things, his life has been okay, but far from ‘good’, at least initially. He went through some tough times that included really crappy jobs, the death of his mother and drug/alcohol addiction. He received enough rejection letters that he had to use a railroad spike to hold them all on his wall. But he managed to turn his pain and memories into some incredible stories. He connects with people on a very basic level and understands some of the reality of how relationships play out on the human stage. This understanding works its way into his fiction and as a result his stories are more believable. The characters who populate his fiction worlds are actual human beings. Albeit, human beings who have been thrown into some really unreal shit.

His outcome is several million dollars in sales of his fiction, nonfiction and probably his laundry list if he felt so inclined.

I have been a fan since I read Carrie in school.

Dean Koontz used to write the same way. His characters were believable, if a bit over the top with their abilities and reactions to things. Phantoms is one of the books I count among the creepiest that I have ever read. And if I had to pick 10 books to take to a deserted island, it would be one of them. But I had a minor problem with the doctor and her sister not attempting to leave town after finding all of the grizzly things that they did. I think a more human response might have been to get the hell out of dodge no matter what. I recognize that this would have killed the story, or at least made it less powerful. Two young white women at risk and all that jazz. But it seemed a little odd. Of course everything else that happened made pretty good sense. Like I said, it’s one of my favorite stories.

And there are other authors out there that I feel are real and show themselves on the page, even if unconsciously.

Alan Dean Foster loves and cares about the worlds he creates and the people he populates them with. Flinx is a character that goes back to high school and some of the best years of my life. Creative years packed with growth and exploration. And the knowledge that life hadn’t yet started, but boy did it look fucking awesome. That might be part of the reason why the stories are still so powerful for me. Nor Crystal Tears still works after all of these years. And his newer stuff, The Catechist trilogy is just sheer fucking poetry.

There are others. I’ve been a fan of the written word since I learned how to read at age 5. It’s probably why I keep trying to convince myself that I can write fiction and join the ranks of those that I admire so much. Being counted among the likes of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Alan Dean Foster, Orson Scott Card, F Paul Wilson, Robert McCammon, and Octavia Butler would be the crowning glory for me.

Of course, the crux of the problem is being able to write from my feelings. To truly emote through my characters in a way that is believable and interesting to others.

This is a problem because real life has taught me to stay the hell away from my emotions. It’s much safer to put those pesky emotions behind a door and safeguard them from pain and rejection. A life time of holding back to keep from being hurt has ingrained that kind of thinking deep in my subconscious. It’s going to take something way more convincing than the words of transient people in my life to tear down that wall. Something on the order of an emotional nuclear bomb is needed. And based on how I hold things in, probably more than one. The problem is, as I’ve gotten older, it’s become harder to offer that trust to anyone. Or to accept it in return.

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that everyone is out to get me. Far from it. As a matter of fact, my fears run in the exact opposite direction. I am more afraid that no one fucking cares. It makes putting things down on paper just that much harder. I have to convince myself that my writing is just for me and maybe someone - someday will read it and like it. But the larger, internal part of me isn’t buying it. No one has cared to this point, so what, I write a few hundred thousand words and all of a sudden people care? What the fuck?

Okay, so that won’t work. So the question becomes ‘What else do I need to do to get the stories out? Because regardless of what I might think, the damned things aren’t willing to stay put. I have new story ideas bubbling inside me like a bad pudding. They are just clamoring to get out and be told. To be part of the universe that surrounds them. I can’t shut it off, and really, I don’t want to.

So getting in touch with my emotions and then learning how not to be afraid of being hurt is the only way that I will ever be the writer I know I am inside. It’s a process. Anything worth doing usually is.