I knew going in this post would be tough, but I promised to write with you. Since I suggested you write down what you know, I will also do the homework.

FML.

Early in my writing life, as a student, I was Very Serious about write what you know. Write about your life. Write about things you know a lot about. I took this to heart and because I have a bad habit of being literal minded, I did not look for a nuanced interpretation. In my defense, my writing teachers presented this advice in its most basic form, suggesting that students write about our jobs or an interesting relative or that one time at band camp.

If a writer was supposed to write what you know, by god, that’s what I was going to do. But I had a problem.

I didn’t know shit.

I’d never experienced that one time at band camp. I was never a very social kid and thanks to my parents, we were estranged from nearly every member of both sides of our extended family. I didn’t have any special skills. I had just started a crappy retail job to pay for college. I wrote a lot of anecdotes about my family, my college campus, and my job, but nothing that moved me.

Today, I have another problem.

I still don’t know shit.

My life was and is boring. I’m risk averse. I don’t sky dive. I don’t have addiction issues. I’ve never lived in my car. I don’t own a gun. I don’t involve myself as a third player in other people’s relationships. I show up for work and pay my bills on time, even when I don’t feel like it. I do not want to live in interesting times.

I’m severely lacking in basic survival skills. I function in the kitchen, but neither cook nor bake to any great effect. I cannot perform the work of a carpenter, plumber, interior designer, contractor, or electrician. I have no specialized background of the type that lends itself to drama – lawyer, doctor, police officer, cowboy. I cannot write with any accuracy about the life a stripper or the Village People.

I’m useless with cars. I hate gardening. I have killed a cactus.

The arts? I write, but as well noted, the trope of the writer writing about the struggles of the writer has been beaten to death. I have acted in small roles in garage productions and enjoy painting and drawing, but could not teach you anything special about theater or art. I know nothing about music other than what I like and I cannot sing. I don’t care about fashion.

I attended college, but could not afford to live on campus and had to work to pay my way, so I missed all of what should have been formative experiences, both the grand and mundane (and humiliating). I’ve done a lot of volunteer work, for community centers, small theater companies. I’ve shepherded loved ones through health issues and helped care for two elderly parents. But while these were things I did, I don’t feel sufficiently proficient in any of them to assert that I know them, to the extent I could deploy them in fiction.

Because that’s what write what you know means, right? You know enough about a topic to portray it in fiction, to give the reader a sense of place and time, to create verisimilitude. You create moments of recognition. A reader with similar experiences will appreciate your authenticity, and may recognize events that have occurred in their lives. You could teach this class.

Do I know anything?

I know a little bit about a lot of things. I hoard trivia and nuggets of information. As a kid, I was an avid comic book reader and so today I’m able to catch the references and easter eggs in superhero movies that a lot of people miss. I’m available for parties!

I know a little bit about art, a bit more about writing. I have eclectic tastes in film and music but can speak reasonably intelligently about various artists and artistic movements, but could not teach a class. I can tell you about federal government contract law and regulations, but I’d rather you not ask. I’m good with Excel. I’m reasonably proficient at desktop publishing and podcasting.

So far, I’m failing to see any relevance to fiction.

My jobs?

Comic store clerk, bank teller, department store stockroom, receptionist, very low paid intermittent newspaper writer, call center goon, call center goon, call center goon, book store clerk, call center management staff, client account manager, arts & crafts store clerk, writer, content developer, webinar creator, podcaster, managing editor, project manager.

Once I got my feet under me, my jobs got progressively better, but I’ve not reached the height of any large corporation nor run for office nor worked for a politician for pay or as a significant volunteer. I am no cutthroat. When I was younger, I applied for work that would have provided some grist for write what you know – roller skating rink disc jockey, community center activities manager, 911 dispatcher – but alas, I have the in-person charm of a call center goon.

If I were serious about the writing thing, I should have gotten a job at Waffle House, but instead I know a lot about cubicles, stupid corporate HR policies, angry customers, federal contract law, and again, comic books. Unless there’s a clamor for an inside look at stacking dishes in a department store kitchenware department or talking to angry electric company customers, I’m not going to get far. Worse, I’ve been working from home for the last 20 years, so I don’t even have the chance to observe interesting characters in the wild.

As you can see, if I limit myself to writing what I know – facts and skills and various bits of know-how – I am well and truly fucked. Fortunately, the definition of knowledge is expansive.

I wish I had known that.

Today, I know so many other things.

Thank god.