There is a lot of writing advice out there, much of it repeated in texts, lectures, tutorials, workshops, and the like. For the most part, you’ll hear a lot of the same lessons phrased in different ways. This can be great because it may take several different outlooks for a valuable lesson to truly stick, at least if you’re anything like me. It also means a lot of substandard or downright bad lessons are repeated, creating poor habits or, worse, issues of confidence with writers who might otherwise soar.
One of the most common, and maybe one of the most misunderstood pieces of advice is to write what you know.
On the surface this makes sense. How can you write something you don’t know, right? What about sci-fi and fantasy writers though? I won’t swear to it in court but I’m confident George R.R. Martin has never actually seen a dragon, just as I’m sure Michael Crichton never visited an island of dinosaurs, and Stephen King has never…well…take your pick.
Taken literally, write what you know is a bit of a fallacy.
What I think the advice is meant to convey, or what it should convey, is to write the truth, or what you know to be true. Don’t lie to yourself, your audience, or your characters in the context of the story. On its surface, fiction is confabulation. Many of us know however that fiction can tell deep, ancient truths. Fellowship of the Ring may be filled with literal malarkey (I say this with the utmost respect for Tolkien’s work and only to make a point) but profound truths can be gleaned from its pages.
One of the best, and toughest, pieces of writing advice I’ve been given is to write what scares you. I believe effective writers of every ilk do this in all their best works.
Let’s look at Mr. King again, inarguably the modern master of the horror genre. He may have legitimate concerns about obsessive fans, but I’m reasonably confident he doesn’t lose sleep at night for fear of waking up in Annie Wilkes’ guest bed. Nor do I believe he’s frightened of an ancient cosmic being dressed up as a clown who lives in the sewers. But perhaps he does have some real concerns about obsession, addiction, alcoholism, vulnerability, the unknown, abuse. The reason he’s such an effective writer isn’t because he makes clowns or fans or cell phones scary, but because he uses these devices to deliver deeper truths about the human condition and the state of our world.
If nothing else, writing provides an effective outlet for confronting things we may otherwise be too scared, anxious, or nervous to face. It’s a hard thing to do, writing what scares you, confronting your fears. Not only that, it’s hard to do in a manner that is relevant to other people. I have a litany of concerns and fears, especially as a husband and father, but very few of them would make an interesting story to the average reader, at least the way I might tell it. But the essence of those fears and the potential they hold is what makes them effective story devices.
If you’re not a writer, or not someone who wants other people to read what you write, journaling can be an effective way of confronting your fears. It’s not even about putting the pen to paper, but more about admitting the concern exists. It’s about acknowledging the monster under the bed, understanding why it lives there and what it feeds on, and depriving it of everything that supports its existence. That goes far beyond writing of course and more into self-analysis and actualization.
Write what scares you is not only some of the best writing advice I’ve ever received, especially as a horror author, but also some of the best life advice I’ve ever received.
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