I have nothing to say.
Inaccurate: I have a lot to say about how I feel about fiction writing, the goals I have for next year, or even the mild bitterness about my ex-husband’s support of those goals. But my immediate urge is to self-censor all that:
This is a community blog; no one needs your bullshit. You’ve already used that “writing is hard” meme a dozen times. Making goals is a recipe for failure; just go with the flow. Stop thinking in thoughts separated by a semi-colon.
I’m willing to bet if I pull up the Google Machine right now and search “writing self-censoring,” I’ll already find a dozen topics on the ways that writers shy away from opening themselves up on the page. I’m not going to do that, because it would be another reason not to write about it.
I’ve come to remove writing from storytelling. The writing is uncomplicated, even when it’s not easy. Writing is just a means to communicate an idea in the most efficient way possible, with some allowing for flare. (“Flare” is the word I use to mean I was too arrogant to pay attention in English class and only half-understand how grammar works.)
Telling a story is impossible.
Everyone knows that a story needs authenticity to stand — even though “write what you know” is dumb advice, that’s the leg it stands on. A writer does not have to bleed on the keyboard to tell a good story. But we do have to shine a light on the thoughts, feelings, and experiences that make us brilliant and ugly and flawed and perfectly human.
So, here’s my problem.
Authenticity requires vulnerability, and I’ve grown to resent my vulnerability over the last year or so. This has shown in the fiction I’ve tried to write lately versus in years past. Some of my favorite pieces of fiction here at the Cafe have been intensely personal, and tapped from parts of me that were are soft and ugly. (One of them happened without me noticing, which was strange to realize in re-reads.)
I’m one of those insufferable people who likes to look at a work and try to find the author in it, especially on the second (or third or fourth) consumption. Compelled as I am with character arcs and stories, I also want to see the creator’s hands in the mess. I like to try to guess at the process that went into it, the motivation or inspiration.
Get me talking about Supernatural long enough, and eventually we start talking about Sera Gamble’s food politics. (Spoiler: the enemy in one season is high fructose corn syrup. They’re not exactly subtle politics.) How long can any room of writers talk about Doctor Who before we start comparing The Moffat Seasons to The Moffat/Davies Seasons? (Welcome to the comment section, friends.)
And yet, I’m terrified of that sort of scrutiny being turned on me — and I do it to myself as I’m writing anymore, so it’s always in the back of my mind. That I’m writing this right now is vulnerable. I am aware and I want to stop doing it. I do not want to share with you that I even have vulnerabilities — I want to continue playing up this disconnected, unemotional thing I try really hard at. Look at me, this is me, not caring about anything. I have absolutely zero feels about anything important.
I have a lot of writing goals for 2014. I feel ready to tackle the “actually being a fiction writer for real” thing I was doing in 2012. The first step is to finish writing, and I’m not going to be able to write until I stop being so scared about what my writing says about me.
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