On Writing

I really wanted to like Netflix’ Ripley. Patricia Highsmith is one of my favorite writers and The Talented Mr. Ripley is by far my favorite of her novels. And I’ve loved Andrew Scott since his turn as Moriarty on Sherlock. What could go wrong?

A lot, actually. And it all started and ended with the trailer. Stick with me. I’ll bring this around to writing in the end.

If it seems harsh to judge an entire series solely by its trailer, be warned that I also judge books by their cover. In fact, I used to make a game of it. As I wandered bookstore aisles, I would pick up a novel at random and make a wild guess at the basic premise and presumed audience based solely on the cover. I played fair – I avoided books by writers I recognized, franchise novelizations like Star Wars or Star Trek novels, and any novel where the cover imagery was directly representational of its contents. It doesn’t take a genius to guess the contents of a novel with a vampire or swastika on the cover.

Honestly, it was easier than you might guess. Quirky single woman with ludicrous hobby needs a boyfriend. Midwestern family is sad but comes together at the end. Unethical lawyer accidentally does something good. Giant corporations make space as shitty as Earth. Woman over 50 perseveres despite the terrible secret in her backstory and/or her husband.

My friends used to laugh and call me judgmental – which I really am – but in this case, I wasn’t relying on my standards, but observation. Publishers buy novels that are similar to books that have already sold well. They design those books to look like the book that sold well. This alleviates the need for readers to do too much thinking at the bookstore. If you want to read a novel about Quirky Single Woman, look for neon colors, fun fonts that look like handwriting, and specific graphic elements, like a lipstick or a sundress. If you’re looking for Slightly Older and Slightly Less Quirky Single Woman Who Has a Job that Exists in the Real World, your color scheme is pastels.

So under certain circumstances, I’m very comfortable judging a television show by its trailer. The whole point of the trailer is to sell the show. The scenes the audience what the show is about and how the story will be told. It’s meant to entice People Who Like This Sort of Thing, and a show like Ripley should have been aimed squarely at my forehead.

My first disappointment was with the characterization of Ripley. The presentation of Andrew Scott in the trailer made it clear that the story would portray Tom Ripley as an intentional serial predator, rather than the emerging, almost accidental, villain of the novel. (Folks who watched the show say my impression was correct.)

If you find it odd that I refer to triple murderer Tom Ripley as the accidental villain, please note that my friends who call me judgmental also comment on my unsettling infatuation with sociopathic protagonists. It’s a thing.

Yes, I know…Ripley does Bad Things: Identity theft, fraud, at least three murders, and general profligacy. But the pleasure of the novel – for me – is his path to villainy. Tom’s choices and mistakes drive the narrative and create the dramatic tension. At the beginning of the novel, Tom’s biggest crime is passing bad checks so that he can pay rent. But from there, he’s presented with opportunities and choices, and because we understand his backstory and motivations, we know why he takes the job from Mr. Greenleaf, why he’s attracted to Dickie and Marge’s lifestyle, why his jealousy turns to craving, why he’s desperate to maintain the fictional life he’s created, and finally, why he’s terrified of capture.

The reader understands Ripley’s motivations and roots for him, even though we know we shouldn’t. In our right minds, we believe he should be caught, but we’re thrilled when he finds yet another way to slip between the cracks. The whole joy of the novel is watching Ripley improvise his escapes and make ever-escalating bad choices.

For my dollar, setting up Ripley as a serial predator undercuts him as the protagonist of his own story and drains that dramatic energy. It also precludes the audience from participating in his villainy. I couldn’t see myself rooting for the version of Ripley in the trailer.

My second disappointment is that they filmed in black and white. I initially thought the trailer was stylized to reflect a noir vibe, but then I realized the entire show itself was going to be B&W. To be fair, the cinematography looked gorgeous. My criticism is not a slight to the talent, but rather a disagreement with the artistic choice. If the series had been called Ridgely, I would have watched it and probably enjoyed it.

But instead, the choice to film in black and white robbed the story of one of its crucial elements – its setting.

In Patricia Highsmith’s novels, the setting is not merely where the action occurs. The location is central to the plot and characterization. There are no incidental settings in a Highsmith novel.

Ripley’s story starts in New York, where a clever young forger realistically could get away with passing bad checks. Highsmith could have chosen another large city, but not a smaller one. However, the choice of New York also puts Tom in proximity to money, in the form of Mr. Greenleaf. Greenleaf is motivated by generational status and wealth, an interest he wants his son to share. He hires Tom – a very slight acquaintance of Dickie’s – to retrieve him from Italy. Could this scenario have taken place anywhere but New York? Greenleaf’s motivation and his access to sufficient wealth to run a business, fund his son’s profligate lifestyle, and rent a boy to fetch him required a major city in the background. A major player like Greenleaf doesn’t live in Baltimore or St. Louis. He lives where the action is.

But the rest of the novel absolutely could not have taken place in New York. Why does Ripley become so attached to Dickie Greenleaf, to the point that he becomes him? Tom enters the story through Dickie’s father and the family’s wealth, both of which he envies, but it’s in the Italian seaside town where he’s enraptured. Initially, Tom’s goal is to earn some easy money by tracking down Dickie in the fictional Mongibello, but when he arrives, he’s enthralled by possibilities. This is the life he could be – should be – living, and he can have it, if he ingratiates himself to Dickie. When the younger Greenleaf starts treating Tom to travel, restaurants, and nightclubs, he’s hooked.

And once Tom’s crimes start mounting up, it’s even more clear why the story could not have been set in New York. For Tom to assume Dickie’s identity, the setting had to be relatively remote, somewhere Dickie Greenleaf wasn’t well known. Tom might have gotten away with some light forgery, but he could not have passed himself off as Dickie Greenleaf in New York without a significant risk of bumping into people who knew him or his father. He certainly would not have had easy access to Dickie’s money.

To evade arrest, Tom also needed a locale where he could play cat and mouse with the local police. A densely populated city would have provided less opportunity for evasion, making it more likely he would have been spotted. In Mongibello, Tom could sail up the coast to another remote town. In New York, he could easily have been spotted by a train porter or subway cop. Let’s also concede that the local constabulary in post-WWII Italy weren’t as sophisticated as the NYPD and did not have access to the same technologies.

Ratcheting up the tension, though, Tom is also at a disadvantage in Italy. When he arrives, he does not speak the language and never picks up more than some rudimentary conversation. He does not know his way around. He also has no money, and must rely on Dickie – pre- and post-death – to pay his way. On the other hand, he is also advantaged, because no one knows him, either. He can claim to be Dickie Greenleaf, confident that only a small handful of people in the area know otherwise.

One of the best elements of Anthony Minghella’s 1999 film version is the glorious views of the Italian coastal town, the colors and people. It’s so beautifully done, you can practically feel the midday sun and the breeze, smell the fishermen’s boats and the salt sea and the suntan oil. The audience understands why Tom falls in love, with Italy and with Dickie.

For my dollar, filming in B&W drains much more than the color from the imagery. It robs the setting of its power and puts the audience at a remove from the characters. Your mileage may vary.

I probably wouldn’t care so much, except that Highsmith does such a brilliant job setting her novels. She did so many things well, but carving her characters out of the wood of her locations is one of her master talents. Need more examples?

In Deep Water, the Little Wesley setting is critical to the plot. Little Wesley is a small New England town, but small as in exclusive, not poor. The upper middle class community is tight-knit and socializes regularly at garden parties and dinners. In a more conventional small town, the serial infidelity of the protagonist’s wife, Melinda, would likely have resulted in her being ostracized, but the more worldly neighbors in Little Wesley take their cues from her husband, Vic, who seems to look the other way. Importantly, Melinda uses social occasions to introduce her boyfriends to everyone they know, humiliating Vic. In a larger city, like Boston or New York, she would have had less opportunity to present her lovers repeatedly to the same audience. Melinda’s ability to flaunt her lovers and pay no social cost required a setting where both could happen.

In The Price of Salt (later Carol), it’s important that Carol Aird lives in a tony suburb with a husband with a successful career. If Carol had been wealthier, perhaps someone else would have done her Christmas shopping, preventing her from meeting Therese. If she’d been lower class, Carol’s relationship with Therese would have presented less risk, as her husband could not have afforded a private investigator or lawyers.

In Strangers on a Train, the train setting is central to the inciting incident, of course, but the location of the train at the moment of the fateful meeting is equally important. The conspirators meet while the train is passing through the fictional Metcalf, TX, on the way from New York to Santa Fe. Guy Haines is far from home, contemplating divorce from his unfaithful wife, and perhaps more intrigued by Charles Bruno’s suggestion that they trade murders than he would have been otherwise.

Encountering Charles was mere happenstance that could have occurred anywhere, but would events have followed in the same way if they’d met nearer to Guy’s New York home, or their mutual destination in Santa Fe? Had the train been more populated, Charles might not have risked raising his macabre plot. Had they been closer to Santa Fe, he might not have had time to cultivate his conversation with Guy and make his proposition before they took their leave of one another. By timing the encounter while the train crossed a lonely prairie, Highsmith gave Charles the opportunity to make his pitch and time for Guy to entertain it.

Like a realtor, Highsmith understood one of the most important elements of fiction: Location, location, location. And though her novels were printed in black and white, her writing brought her settings to life in full color.

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I like stories with ambiguous endings. I also like sad endings, and often the two go hand in hand. Is Deckard a replicant? Which survivor is the Thing? Does Offred escape Gilead?

A lot of readers hate ambiguity. They want the writer to show them an orderly world. They want reassurance and closure. When the status quo is disrupted, they want to follow a hero who creates a better world.

But ambiguity is unnerving. It’s disorderly. The ambiguous ending refuses to answer the story question, forcing the reader to reach their own conclusion. Who was behind the door: the lady or the tiger? Sometimes there is no answer.

Sometimes there are two answers and the reader does not know which would be better or simply less worse. Most often, the very act of pondering raises more questions. With an ambiguous ending, no one tells you what’s right or wrong, or even if anything is either right or wrong.

It’s all so…lifelike.

Ambiguous endings are the opposite of escapism. For me, that’s the appeal. I have questions about life that have no answers, or that may have 100 answers, if only I could choose one. Why are we here? Why are humans cruel to people we love? If you got what you wanted, why are you still sad? I want to hear what others think. I want to ponder these questions.

Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” is often cited as a classic of ambiguity, but in this case, it’s not the ending that’s vague. Rather, the entire story is opaque. In fact, the ending provides the only clear answer in the story: the reader knows exactly what happens to Tessie Hutchinson.

It’s the rest of the story we don’t know. What is the purpose of the lottery? How did it begin? Whose idea was it? Why is everyone so sanguine about it? Why are other towns stopping the practice? Why are the people in this town continuing it? We are never told.

The true ambiguity is Jackson’s meaning behind the story. Was she critiquing the Holocaust or McCarthyism? Religion? Without an in-story explanation, the reader is not allowed to feel superior or complacent. We can’t say “This can’t happen here” or “We’re not like those people.” Instead, confronted with a story of average smalltown America, the reader is left asking not if, but how this happened. We wonder how or whether we would stand up to our community, if confronted with our own lottery. We may wonder how close our nation is to starting one.

Tana French’s debut novel, In the Woods, also unsettled readers, because a number of in-story questions are never answered. Warning: Spoilers ahead. In the Woods is a fantastic novel, so skip a few paragraphs if you want to read it.

The central mystery of the novel is the murder of a young girl, whose body is found in the woods of a Dublin suburb. The lead detective assigned to the investigation – Adam Ryan – has a shocking connection to the case: when he was a boy, he and two friends went missing in the same woods. Adam was soon found in a catatonic state, slightly injured but covered in blood. Adam has no recollection of what happened in the woods, and his friends are never found.

Fast forward 20 years, and Adam and his partner do solve the murder of the girl, but we never find out what happened to him or his friends. While the reader anticipates a connection between the current murder and Adam’s assault, there is none, other than the location. French laid out this subplot not to resolve the earlier crime, but to explore the longstanding trauma suffered by her protagonist. The incident is what inspired him to become a detective, and the similarities in the cases naturally bring up bad memories. The investigation triggers emotional reactions that lead to multiple bad choices throughout the novel.

The novel was popular, but reader reaction was split. Readers are trained by genre expectations to anticipate a resolution to the protagonist’s mystery. It’s fair to assume many thought the same perpetrator had committed both crimes, and that Adam would receive some closure by finding the person who killed his friends. At a minimum, they may have expected to learn some information about what happened to the boys, such as through recovered memories triggered by proximity to the original scene.

But boldly, French didn’t give readers that closure. I was shocked that she didn’t wrap up Adam’s backstory, but loved that she was ambitious enough to leave that shadow in his past. In addition to subverting the reader’s expectations, she left them with unsettling questions about the lingering effects of trauma, the need for closure, and whether the police can protect us and our children.

I previously wrote about one of my brushes with traditional publishing, when a reputable market for short fiction came close to publishing one of my stories. The story hit a roadblock with the editors in part due to the ambiguous ending.

The story focused on two college friends – one gay, one straight. Both have had long-term relationships that are ending as the story begins. The narrator – the gay guy – reflects on how they’ve changed over the years, how their philosophies have evolved and their passions dimmed, the natural result of maturing past one’s youth.

But as the two reconnect as single adults, the narrator discovers that his friend has not lost his passion for writing and philosophy. He had maintained a piece of his youth, a spark the narrator had allowed to dim as he became involved in a more mundane life. The narrator is confused and hurt that others knew this side of his friend, while he did not. They had lost their connection and he feels left behind. Without the anchors of either his relationship or his longtime friendship, he feels adrift.

The friends sleep together, something the narrator had long desired. After many years, his love is finally requited. But in the end, now that he’s gotten his wish, he finds himself at odds. Who was this person in his bed? Did he know his friend at all anymore? Had they connected in one way only to learn they’d grown too far apart in others?

The story questions reflected what I was thinking about as a younger man – Can we hold on to the passions of our youth? How do we maintain important friendships when everyone is changing? How does it feel to obtain something you’ve desired for a long time, but only after you’ve evolved past the point of wanting or needing it?

Questions without answers. Or rather, a different answer for every person.

That was the story rejected by the people who preferred fiction about guys pooping on each other.

Not that I’m still bitter about it.

Some readers can’t stand ambiguity. Maybe it makes them uncomfortable. Maybe they feel cheated out of a proper ending. Maybe they don’t want to sit with the emotions and questions raised by an ambiguous ending.

In “The Lottery,” we’re left wondering why the townspeople are happy to stone a neighbor to death and if they even know why they’re doing it. We wonder what we or our neighbors would do in a similar situation.

In In the Woods, we are unsettled that a murderer goes free.

At the end of my story, a reader might reminisce about past friendships or the dreams they’ve abandoned. They might consider the difference between what they want and what they need to feel fulfilled.

As a writer, the question of ambiguous endings reaches back to your purpose. Do you write to comfort or entertain? Is your goal to communicate? If so, you probably don’t want to leave your story questions open. If you want to point your reader in a specific direction, you need to make your point.

On the other hand, do you want your reader to come to their own conclusions about your theme? Do you want to leave your reader contemplating an element of the human condition? Do you want to leave them feeling unsettled? Do you want to horrify them?

If it’s the latter, leave them with questions.

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A funny thing about writing blogs: they tend to hit similar topics all around the same time. An article about tropes over here is followed by two articles discussing tropes someplace else. One blogger writes about controlling time in your narrative, and two more follow within a week or so.

I’m not saying they swipe from one another – though they might – but it’s a funny coincidence, and very noticeable when you follow as many blogs as I do. This past week or so, three separate bloggers hit on my favorite topic – the importance of centering yourself in your creative work.

If my word wasn’t enough, here are theirs:

In a post on her blog, Tiffany Yates Martin uses Monica Lewinsky as an example of someone who had to reclaim her story after she was defined by outside sources. We all know what happened and what people said and thought about her, and yet, in later life, Lewinsky fought back to tell the story from her perspective and to define herself on her own terms.

TYM relates this to our writing, in that our characters are also pushed around by forces outside their control. We call that backstory and plot and character development – all those things we don’t want to experience in the real world, but are critical to story.

But she also connects this to our creativity. How much and how often do we allow ourselves to be defined by an editor, agent, or publisher, or a peer critique group? Are we only as good as our last rejection or review or sales report? I know published authors often fret about writing in a new genre, afraid their readers won’t “accept” it.  Pfft.

TYM extends this to our social media personas and even our personal lives, but succinctly asks “Whose definition of who I am matters but my own?”

Whose view of my creative work matters more than mine, as its creator? I don’t mean that we believe it’s always perfect—but it always holds a foundational value even if it isn’t to everyone’s taste or standards.

And the benefits of being herself? “What it’s given me is a confidence and contentment inside my own skin that I lacked for much of my teens, twenties, thirties…even into my forties,” TYM says. “It’s given me agency and autonomy in my life, and a sense of self that, while not always unshakable (those inner demons still swarm out of their cave from time to time and undercut my confidence), is a much more solid foundation than it used to be. It has given me my voice as an artist—and I’m including my editing in that too, as much a creative art as any of the writing I do.”

Hear, hear.

Two other articles popped up around this time. In a post on Jane Friedman’s blog, Laura Stanfill urges writers to always trust their instincts when it comes time to choose a project. “Write for yourself,” she says. “Not for an agent who doesn’t know you exist (yet). Not for a publisher whose taste you can only guess from a distance. Not for your writing group because they’re writing a certain genre or style.”

And in a post on Writers in the Storm, Julie Glover identifies three things you should never let anyone – peer group, beta reader, editor, publisher, friend – mess with.

• Your Voice. One of the greatest potential detriments to a writer’s voice is the peer critique group or the writing workshop. In addition to helping us hone craft, our peers may suggest alterations to voice or theme. Writers often find themselves writing to please the room, rather than themselves. And college workshops tend to produce writers who sound too similar to the half dozen favorite authors of the class advisor.
• Your Process. Do you write every day or once a week? Do you outline or discovery write? Do you edit as you go? “The right process is whatever works for you,” Glover writes. “By all means, try out different ways of writing, but once you figure out your process, stick to it. If you know what works for you, own it and protect it.”
• Your Theme. The central focus of your story is why you wrote it in the first place. Your readers may interpret it differently, but don’t let anyone tell you what your story means to you or convince you to alter it to something less personal.

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Are modern writers too pampered and precious to write great stories? In a recent post on her blog, Kristen Lamb wondered aloud if writers – those of the Western or First World persuasion anyway – have become too domesticated to truly understand and write authentically about human cares and trauma.

In developed countries, most of us have our lowest-tier needs met. We have clean running water and indoor plumbing. We know where to find food. Speaking for the middle class, we generally have shelter and access to basic healthcare, if not better than basic. Most of us have not been in a fist fight since grade school. That leaves us the time and freedom to write, or engage in almost any activity within our means and skill.

Lamb wonders if modern living has dulled both our senses and our writing. If we don’t struggle, can we relate to those who do? Can we accurately depict the efforts of a character striving for a great achievement, if we’re happy sitting on our butts? Do we care enough about any topic to write about it with passion? Can we write with intensity or do our stories reflect our marshmallow fluff lives?

She got me wondering. Could a modern writer envision the ending of The Grapes of Wrath, when Rose of Sharon suckles a starving man at her breast? Could we even imagine the depth of deprivation and desperation that would drive them to this act? Would we dare create a character capable of offering such a sacrament, simultaneously holy and debased?

Lamb turns her conversation to a discussion of how writers can inhabit characters whose lives are dramatically different from their own, through a combination of experience, observation, and imagination, but I think her original point is worth pondering.

Q. Are we too domesticated to write great stories?

1. Who’s ‘we’, Kemosabe?

Though there’s no record Steinbeck ever experienced starvation-level poverty, he worked on ranches in his youth and with migrant laborers on a sugar beet farm. At one point in his adult life, he was reportedly poor enough to steal, if not suckle. While his life was different from the Joads’, he lived close enough to observe people like them. If he didn’t come from the Dust Bowl, he knew folks who did.

While I consider myself somewhat middle class today, I’ve been on the dole and lived paycheck to paycheck working dead-end wage slave jobs. I’ve never actually gone hungry – let’s define that as no food for a day or more, or regularly skipping meals due to poverty – but there have been plenty of times I didn’t have enough cash in the bank to get a twenty from the ATM, with payday a week away. My ex was disabled and if you want to witness some dehumanizing bullshit, hang out with someone who is both poor and chronically ill when they visit their doctor or a social worker. And as a gay guy who came of age in the middle of the AIDS crisis, I’m happy to have made it to a better time.

I’ll meet Kristen halfway on her thesis: Most of us don’t – and will never – know what it’s like to live in a literal war zone. The lives of people in Afghanistan, Kiev, or even pre-peace Belfast are far removed from our own. We don’t live under the daily threat of cartel violence. And despite fears (of some) that a military dictatorship or mass roundups are just around the corner, we aren’t there yet. Our fear is driven, in part, by the fact we haven’t lived this way. It’s the terror of the unknown.

But on the other hand, we’re only 2 generations removed from the Jim Crow south. Come to my Baltimore hometown and you’ll find clear evidence of crumbling infrastructure, generational poverty, and gun violence. While driving through western Maryland a few years ago, a friend gestured up a mountain road to show me where the homes had no indoor plumbing. We were no more than a 2-3 miles from the biggest local city. Ask any survivor of a mass shooting or ongoing domestic violence, or anyone who’s served in the military in the past 25 years, if they feel like they can’t understand someone else’s trauma. We’re lucky to live in America, but not all Americans are lucky.

Very few of us have lives so insulated we don’t bump up against poverty, serious illness, and loss. Even if you haven’t felt the rough end of the stick, chances are you know someone who has. In my experience, humans have all the suffering they can handle. Our task as writers is to remember it, draw on it, and turn it into art.

2. What is ‘suffering’?

Physical and financial comfort are no protection against suffering of other kinds. No one is immune from loss or illness. Maybe you’ve never met the Joads, but you might know someone suffering from poor health, mental illness, loneliness, rejection, or crushed dreams, like Holden Caulfield, Willy Loman, Blanche DuBois, Evan Hansen, Mildred Pierce, or Ove. You might know a closeted widower (A Single Man), an abused child (Bastard Out of Carolina), someone with a terminal illness (The Fault in Our Stars), or a family affected by 9/11 (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close) or suicide (Ordinary People).

It’s very possible you’ve experienced one of those events yourself, or something similar. You may have physical comfort and food on the table and still be in pain. And loathe though I be to say something generous about the über wealthy, even they have their heartache.

We are lucky to not live in a war zone, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we are soft or pampered. Grief hurts. Mental illness hurts. Going hungry hurts. Let’s not make the mistake of viewing suffering as a competition.

3. What is ‘great’?

Our foundational and safety needs – food, water, shelter, warmth – make for compelling fiction. Audiences love Man v. Nature stories like 127 Hours or Into the Wild, in which a protagonist of comfortable means must struggle for basic necessities. Even in The Martian, Mark Watney’s foundational challenge is not finding a way off Mars, but getting to shelter. Then he has to stitch a puncture wound in his side and figure out how to grow food. Getting back to Earth is literally the last item on his list of worries.

But food and shelter aren’t our only needs. As I wrote above, humans also suffer when we lack love, whether familial, intimate, platonic, or communal. If we are lucky enough to have these things, we grieve when we lose them, which can feel worse than never having them at all. Our need for companionship is secondary to basic survival, but equally important.

And, when we are fortunate enough to have our primary and secondary needs met, we are free to focus on our psychological health and balance and our desire for fulfillment and meaning.

The theme of a ‘great’ novel doesn’t have to arise from the red zone or a war zone. We can cast our gaze upward at intangible, existential needs. We can long for something more than base survival. Great novels can encompass the search for enlightenment (Siddhartha), identity (The Awakening), life’s meaning (On the Road), or redemption (Atonement).

And when do we have the luxury of pondering the abstract? When we are physically comfortable.

4. Who cares?

And there’s the rub.

Anytime I talk about writing, I come back to this foundational question: Do you want to?

It doesn’t matter where you sit on Maslow’s Pyramid. You have the choice of what to write. Do you want to write about a topic you care about passionately? Do you want to write about characters facing physical trials or seeking safety or mourning lost love or building community or chasing fame or craving purpose in life?

Do you want to write a ‘great’ novel? Yes or no.

Can you write a great novel? That’s a question for another day.

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Have you ever experienced a strong burst of creativity, like a long stretch of productive daily writing, and then felt a crash when the wave crested? You’re not alone, and apparently, we can blame our brains.

These findings aren’t new, but they’re new to me, thanks to a recent post by Anne Allen on her blog. Not long ago (relatively speaking), scientists identified an anatomical link between the creative part of the brain and the part in charge of depression. Specifically, the part of the brain that activates depressive episodes is also the part we use for complex thoughts (i.e.: creativity).

Researchers have even suggested that humans developed depression – along with over-thinking and disinterest in daily living – as a way to boost our problem-solving skills. In other words, fat, happy, well-fed people do not invent better mousetraps. Other researchers believe that mild depression correlates to stronger writing, because we overthink and are more critical of our work. In other words, the fat happy writer is satisfied with their first draft.

Now the question – does this circuit flow both ways? If mild depression is conducive to creative thinking, can spending too much time in a creative flow state trigger a depressive episode?

It’s possible? Allen believes this can be the case, but I’m not convinced. I suspect the post-creativity crash – to the extent you have one – results more from physical and mental fatigue than actual depression. It may also be a result of exiting a fictional world where you enjoy the powers of creation and control and having to return to {gestures broadly at everything} this place.

Also, the other articles I’ve read haven’t differentiated between mild and severe depression. As someone who has dealt with depression for most of my life, I can confirm there is a big difference between feeling mildly disinterested in your hobbies and having to make a concerted physical effort to get out of bed or take a shower. The former might engage some creative problem-solving, but the latter makes simple activities feel impossible.

That said, the list of creative geniuses who battle depression is deep and encompasses every discipline. But I suspect the depression came first, and the creativity – art, writing, comedy, dance, acting, better mousetraps – is one way the depressed mind works out its own solution. I’ve often found that engaging in creative work is much better than meds for a mild dose of the crap.

Your mileage may vary, but I found this interesting and plan to read up on it more. Here are a few books that came up as I wrote this post. Caveat – I haven’t read any of them, so I can’t recommend or un-recommend them. They merely caught my eye:

• The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain by Alice W. Flaherty. Flaherty uses her experience with both hypergraphia (compulsive writing) and depression to explore the neurological and psychological mechanisms behind creativity and mental illness.
• Creativity and Madness: New Findings and Old Stereotypes edited by Barry Panter. This collection of essays examine the link between mental illness and creative expression, drawing from psychology and psychiatry.
• Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy by Eric G. Wilson. Wilson argues against the modern obsession with “being happy”, saying that sadness and melancholy are vital to creativity and deep thinking.
• Creativity and Mental Illness by James C. Kaufman. Kaufman analyzes research on the correlation between creativity and various mental illnesses, including depression.
• Wired to Create: Unraveling the Mysteries of the Creative Mind by Scott Barry Kaufman & Carolyn Gregoire. Kaufman and Gregoire use research in psychology and neuroscience to examine how positive personality traits like openness, sensitivity, and emotional intensity are key to creativity, while also being linked to depression.

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I found this psychological tidbit as I gathered material for last month’s series on Authentic Writing. I couldn’t find a place for it, so this short post can serve as something of an epilogue.

To be authentic, we have to know ourselves. We have to be honest about our values, thoughts, beliefs, successes, and failings.

But…are you honest?

Most of us would say yes, and I think that’s accurate. Even if we have secrets Batman couldn’t beat out of us, we know who we are inside. Writers tend to self-examine. But also, humans are adept at burying memories, denying bad thoughts, and avoiding taboo subjects.

Enter the Sackheim-Gur test. In the 1970s, psychologists Ruben Gur and Harold Sackeim developed a series of embarrassing questions intended to gauge how well people lie to themselves. In their experiment, Sackheim and Gur sought to demonstrate that humans need a certain level of self-deception to engage in specific behaviors or achieve their goals. For example, a follow-on study (Self-Deception and its Relationship to Success in Competition, Joanna Starek, 1991) found that swimmers who were better at self-deception won more often.

It’s a plausible theory. Fake it til you make it, right? A bit of self-deception could turn I can’t into I can.

Here’s the test. The questions range from mild to possibly embarrassing to taboo subjects. Can you answer them? Even the ones that make you squirm a little?

Questions:

On a scale of 1 – 7, with 7 being the strongest possible agreement:

1. Have you ever felt hatred toward either of your parents?
2. Do you ever feel guilty?
3. Does every attractive person of the opposite sex turn you on?
4. Have you ever felt like you wanted to kill somebody?
5. Do you ever get angry?
6. Do you ever have thoughts that you don’t want other people to know that you have?
7. Do you ever feel attracted to people of the same sex?
8. Have you ever made a fool of yourself?
9. Are there things in your life that make you feel unhappy?
10. Is it important to you that other people think highly of you?
11. Would you like to know what other people think of you?
12. Were your parents ever mean to you?
13. Do you have any bad memories?
14. Have you ever thought that your parents hated you?
15. Do you have sexual fantasies?
16. Have you ever been uncertain as to whether or not you are homosexual?
17. Have you ever doubted your sexual adequacy?
18. Have you ever enjoyed your bowel movements?
19. Have you ever wanted to rape or be raped by someone?
20. Have you ever thought of committing suicide in order to get back at someone?

Did any of those questions make you uncomfortable? If someone asked one in public, would you decline to answer or become evasive?

This is just an exercise, and those specific questions may not be relevant to your writing. My point is that authenticity asks us to be honest in response to tough questions, even when – or especially when – we are answering only to ourselves.

Humans are complicated. We can hate someone we are supposed to love. We can become aroused by something we should consider unappealing. We question ourselves and sometimes may not like the answers.

These questions might not trigger anything for your writing, but challenge yourself to craft and answer similar questions about yourself and your characters. The more uncomfortable you feel, the closer you are to uncovering an authentic human experience.

And I guarantee you aren’t the only person thinking it.

In the interest of full disclosure : 7 5 1 6 7 7 7 5 5 5 1 6 6 7 6 1 4 2 3 7

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As my final word on authenticity for now, I leave you with this clip from an interview with the magnificent Orson Welles.

Q: You got away with enormous technical advances, didn’t you?
A: Simply by not knowing that they were impossible.

“I didn’t know there were things you couldn’t do.”

What a gift that is, an invitation to forget what you know, what you’ve been warned against doing, and to approach your creative work with a fresh gaze.

Whatever you want to do, no matter how implausible, pretend that you don’t know it’s impossible, and make a plan to get it done.

Do it anyway.

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Over the last few weeks, I’ve talked about being authentic on the page and what it means to me, shared examples of writers who put it all out there, and examined ways to figure out what it means to be our unique messy selves.

Authenticity is important to my worldview, for life and for my writing. I can point to a lot of reasons this has become central to my personality, but in the end, as Mr. Rogers says…

There’s only one you.

Authenticity means many things, but for me, it means being who you are, admitting your faults and failings, owning your ugly thoughts and animosities, and finding beauty even in the messy stuff. It means being unflinchingly honest, and honoring yourself before others. It’s embracing your entire weird self and doing – and becoming – the best you can with what you’ve got. Authenticity is how you find your true folks. Not everyone will like you, but no one needs 8 billion friends.

In my creative work, authenticity means pursuing projects that I’m passionate about. It means having fun, breaking rules, indulging my interests, being honest about the awkwardness and complexity of being human, embracing questions that have no answers, and putting my values on display.

Authenticity is a practice, not an end state. I can be stubborn and myopic and I don’t always get it right, in life or in my writing. I do my best not to sound like I’m lecturing from a hilltop. I’m climbing too and finding purpose in the journey.

Why is this important for writing?

Aren’t we just telling stories? Here’s my take: If we don’t see you on the page, what’s the point? Why spend your precious hours creating anything if the end result is something anyone could have done?

I want to see as much of you on the page as possible. If you can dig it up, I want to see it. Be yourself. Be extra. Use the flourishes and filigree of your life to write a story that couldn’t possibly have come from someone else.

Here’s a meme:

If you grew up in a Christian tradition, you are probably familiar with the parable of the Light and the Bushel. In essence, Jesus asks rhetorically if a lit oil lamp is meant to be kept under a basket or beside the bed at night. In the non-canonical Gnostic gospels, there’s another saying attributed to Christ that I return to often.

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you. – Gospel of Thomas, Verse 70

There are other translations and interpretations, but that’s the one I like. A bit heavy, yes, but still valid. None of us are at risk of destruction, but I do believe our lives are enriched – and maybe even saved – when we bring forth what’s within us, whatever that may be.

Now, you might ask: why is this important to me? Why have I chosen this hill to die on?

Well, sometimes we choose the hill we die on, and sometimes the hill falls on us. I wish someone had told my younger self that there’s no percentage in trying to fit in. The people who don’t want you won’t accept you and the people who would love you won’t be able to find you. I’m still learning that lesson, but it’s mostly sunk in.

Here’s a funny story.

It’s longish, but bear with me:

When I was in my early 20s, post-college and settled into semi-adult life, I knuckled down to write – I knew I wasn’t a stereotypical party gay, but I had aspirations of being a literary gay. Academic or bohemian, I didn’t care. I wrote regularly, found critique partners, and aimed for publication. I read the writing magazines, bought the annual Writer’s Market book, devoured advice, and subscribed to small press magazines, which is where young writers are supposed to start.

At that point, newly out, it was important to me that I write from my perspective as a young gay man. I didn’t have a name for it yet, but I insisted on authenticity. I wanted to write for myself, I wanted others like me to see themselves in story, and I would try to connect with people who were not like me. How do we ever get to understand each other, and acknowledge our mutual humanity, if not through stories? This was my line in the sand, and part of my earliest credo.

Now, the challenge was that gay wasn’t as cool then as it is now. In the Writer’s Market listings, publications would note whether they accepted gay/lesbian content, and most didn’t. Gay/lesbian work was treated like a genre, like science fiction or porn. If a market didn’t expressly ask for it, the safe assumption was that they wouldn’t publish it. As I recall, there were also boxes for “we don’t want to see…” and guess what they didn’t want to see?

But, I knew what was important to me and what I wanted to write, so I self-exiled from the bulk of the market and focused instead on breaking into one of the handful of reputable (mostly non-paying) markets for gay fiction and poetry.

I submitted to a few places, not successfully. However, eventually I got an incredibly encouraging personal note from an editor at a publication I really wanted to break into. Although he returned my story, he wanted me to know that he and several of the other submissions staff loved it, but were outvoted by those that did not. The story had a melancholy tone and ambiguous – shall I say messy? – ending, which apparently raised a heated debate. Half the editors loved it, half loathed it.

You might be surprised to hear that I took that as an amazing compliment. I wasn’t interested in easy writing. I wanted my readers to think about what they experienced. I wanted them to sit with the story a bit, and bring their own answers to the questions I raised. I wanted them to participate, to decide for themselves what the story meant. That’s the kind of writing I like and despite the rejection, I was thrilled to hear my story had its intended effect. It was the first clear signal that I was on the right track with my writing. The editor who wrote to me encouraged me to submit again.

And dutifully, around the time the next quarterly issue was due out, I made my pilgrimage to the only bookstore I knew carried the magazine and snapped up the new edition, genuinely eager to see what had been selected for publication. I actively sought to feel inspired.

And the first story in that issue was about a young gay guy suffering from classic urban ennui. He is no longer entranced by the city’s attractions, the bar life, or his sexual encounters. A spark is missing. He is searching for something. And in his quest, he answers a classified ad seeking sexual partners, meets an older man at his apartment, and poops on him.

That’s it. That’s the entire story.

My quiet, emotionally earnest tale with an ambiguous conclusion caused such controversy among the editors of one of the most reputable publications for gay men’s writing that it threatened to cause a rift in the collective, but somehow they managed to reach consensus on publishing that. My story was too weird, but that embodied their vision of contemporary gay fiction. That was the mirror they held up to an entire generation. Here you are, guys. This is who you are.

And at that moment, I realized I was simply not made for this world. I was too gay for the mainstream small press and not pooping-on-strangers enough for gay publications. This was disappointing, and honestly heartbreaking, but in the end, liberating. I completely gave up on submitting my work for other people to judge. I accepted that I would not become a literary gay, not if that’s what it took. I hoped never to become that jaded with life.

In retrospect, perhaps I didn’t need to go full scorched earth, especially given the lovely note the editor included with my rejection, but also – I know when to take a hint. I wasted my entire youth trying to be what other people wanted me to be, only to find that the harder I tried, the less they accepted me. I couldn’t bear another moment of it. I certainly wouldn’t alter my writing – the one thing that always worked for me – to suit someone else. Thirty years later, it’s a lot easier for a writer to find their niche, but back then, there were only so many lanes.

Of course, I kept writing. However, I stopped focusing solely on short stories, because I no longer chased publication. I wrote some poems and some plays. I wrote features and reviews for a handful of independent tabloid newspapers. Some friends and I put together our own zine for a couple of years and I published a few things through that, including my rejected story. I helped put together some small ad hoc theater groups, one of which produced one of my short plays. I took some art classes. I drew some comics (badly).

These days, I’m writing more than ever, and I think better than ever, but I still don’t see a place where I fit in. The hoops of traditional publishing are not for me, but the online self-publishing communities are so crammed with bossy cows and their musts and must-nots and have-tos and don’t-evers, I don’t feel right with them either. The vibe is off.

So I write for me. I publish my blog, which I enjoy way more than I ever thought I could. I work on my novels, which I’ll publish when I’m ready. I still like the feel of a physical book in my hands. But for me, the project is over once the book arrives. Anything that happens after will be a bonus.

My route to this point – my blog, my novels in progress – has been circuitous and not always easy. I could have chosen differently, and maybe things would have worked out better, but I know that I made the right choices for me at the time, which is all we can do.

Be yourself. Be authentic. Use all the glitter. Dial your magic up to 11.

I believe in us.

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Have you considered creating a writer’s credo? Whether or not you have, be warned – doing so may not be as easy as it sounds.

I started drafting one, but it will take time to get my thoughts down and organize them to my satisfaction. Like most people, I don’t go around with a list of commandments in my back pocket. If you ask me what I believe about a specific concept, I’m happy to discuss, but I’m not able to rattle off a campaign speech without notice.

So, writing a credo can take time. Because a credo is a personal statement, there’s no checklist that lets you know when you’ve finished. There are no guideposts to creating your guideposts. You’re mostly on your own.

However, in two recent posts on Writer Unboxed, literary agent Donald Maass addressed the writer’s credo in an indirect way. Maass doesn’t use the word “credo” but he does suggest that writers should clarify their view of the human experience and what they wish to accomplish with their work.

In his first article, Maass urges writers to take a “moral inventory” and suggests a series of questions to get you started. For the purpose of this inventory, the questions are either/or. You can choose only one answer, and cannot answer “both”, even if that is sometimes accurate. Here are six of the twelve questions:

• What factor most produces success, security, and happiness: Randomness and luck, or effort and reward?
• Which better describes you: warrior or survivor?
• What is the better goal: to do justice or to practice forgiveness?
• What is better to have: individual freedom or group cooperation?
• Which is better to have: faith or reason?
• Works of fiction should primarily show us: how we are or what we should do?

When you’re done, you should have a list of words or terms that reveal how you see yourself and the human condition. Maass says the final question is especially important to your writing, as it reveals your unconscious intention: Do you create mirrors or arrows? Do you want to show your readers the way people are or the way we should or could be?

Maass dives into the differences between mirrors and arrows – which he calls Stories of Fate and Stories of Destiny. He categorizes the answers to his twelve questions as either mirrors or arrows, and suggests that, from a craft perspective, it’s important to pick what kind of story you’re telling and which answers best fit that story. A strategy of picking some from Column A and some from Column B will likely result in a tale with a muddy message. Maass also offers some advice for putting this into practice, but for the purpose of a credo, the questions are the point. You can find the rest here, and may be inspired to add some of your own.

In a follow-up article, Maass continues discussing how to put these dichotomies into practice in your writing, particularly when deciding your story’s purpose and its intended effect. Generally, Maass argues that when your purpose is unclear, the effect on the reader is weak. You may write a story about the nature of evil or justice or equality, but if your reader does not understand your definitions of those concepts, your story may fall flat. The reader might not grasp your point or even believe that you were arguing for its opposite.

You should never assume that the reader will intuit your purpose. If you want your reader to know what is good or bad, what should be feared, or what should be hoped for, you need to feel that strongly in yourself and express it clearly on the page.

“What produces a strong effect for readers is not your story’s plot circumstances. It’s you. Your outrage, inspirations, problems and comforts. Your heartbreaks, hopes, humiliations and laughter. Your insights, lessons, and self-knowledge.” – Donald Maass

A credo can help you define your values in strong terms that carry through to the page. Maass offers suggestions – including more questions – to help you dig deep into your psyche to identify what angers or scares you or inspires defiance or hope. What makes you furious? When have you felt helpless? When have you felt terror? Those kinds of questions can point you toward specific values and the reasons those emotions were triggered. Again, Maass approaches the topic from a craft standpoint, but the exercises can help you create your writer’s credo.

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Authentic Writing: The Writer’s Credo

Authenticity is as simple as being yourself, but knowing yourself and feeling free to express your individuality can be more complicated.

Many people glide through life without conducting any serious examination of their motivations, belief systems, values, or choices. This isn’t necessarily a negative, though relying too heavily on instinct and habit can create a life of repetition and rut, if you’re not careful.

Writers have the advantage here, as we practice vicarious self-examination through our characters, whether we mean to or not. We make the effort to understand motivation, conflict, how the past haunts us, and how achieving our goals often requires a significant shift in our world view or way of thinking. I’m sure most of us have recognized ourselves in a character and thought “Yeeesh…”

But actively knowing ourselves takes more effort, particularly if we want to express our values, morals, observations, and perspectives through our creative work.

But what can help us get there? One way is the writer’s credo.

What is a credo?

A credo, simply, is a statement of the beliefs that guide your actions or, in this case, your creative work.

You may have seen credos in action in the business world. For example, a statement of beliefs may guide a business plan and attract like-minded investors and employees. Religious texts provide credos for their followers, who may also have their own personal credo for putting their faith into action.

In All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, Robert Fulghum presented his credo for living in language even children can understand: Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess! Don’t take things that aren’t yours. Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody.

In Bull Durham, Kevin Costner’s Crash Ryan had a slightly more colorful statement of beliefs:

But what is a writer’s credo? It can be anything you want it to be, but generally it will contain the values you seek to promote and defend in your work. This can include your purpose in writing and your creative philosophy.

You may already have the foundation for a credo, even if you don’t realize it. Do you believe that love wins out over fear or that might makes right? Do you write to entertain or to illuminate? Do you believe stories raise questions or provide answers? Do you believe we must or must not write about certain topics? Even if you have never written down the answers, they reside in your subconscious, ready for you to access in your writing.

For this exercise, we’re going to talk about putting it together on paper.

Where to start

Write a few simple statements beginning with “I believe…”

You might be tempted to start your list with something profound. That’s great if you have something in mind, but if you don’t, that’s an easy place to get stuck. We can’t all be Maya Angelou. Start with the surface layers. If nothing comes right to mind, lean on a few clichés to get your gears turning.

I believe that honesty is the best policy.

I believe that hard work is the key to success.

I believe that what goes around comes around.  

Keep going. Get your base value statements out first. Then broaden your discovery.

What makes a good father or mother?

Should you stick by family no matter what, or is it ok to walk away?

What gives life meaning? Does anything?

Are humans responsible for themselves or are we responsible for each other?

You may dive a bit deeper and explain why you believe these things. Why is honesty important? Why should we honor family? What did you experience or learn that brought these values into your life? If you want to create an “official” credo, you might not include your stories, but write them down anyway. Go where your heart takes you.

What do you believe about religion, patriotism, death, love, morality, justice, crime, bodily autonomy, consent, freedom, responsibility, childhood? Consider not only statements of belief but the very nature of those concepts. In addition to your moral values, document your intellectual, spiritual, and artistic values. There’s no minimum and no limit – write down as few or as many statements as you wish.

Why do you write? What is your creative philosophy?

Do you write to entertain or create connection?

Do you write about the way life is or the way it should be?

Do you want to disturb or reassure?

Do your stories have a conclusive or ambiguous ending?

Is it more important for your readers to see themselves or be exposed to people and experiences different from them?

I frame these as either/or questions, but the answer can be both! (Most of the time. We’ll come back to that.)

As you deepen and refine your credo, focus on what you feel strongly. You may (correctly) believe that pineapple goes on pizza, but unless you’re willing to die on that hill, you can leave it out, as well as other moral values that aren’t as important. I don’t see the appeal of writing fan fiction but this doesn’t concern me enough to make it into my writer’s credo.

Your statements may reflect current events. What do you think about the role of the internet in an era when many children have a device in their hands before they can talk? How much and what kind of control should parents exert over what their children are taught in school? What motivates you, riles you? What topics bring up the deepest emotional reaction – anger, scorn, affection, reassurance. Look for those and explore them. If one of your “I believe…” statements sounds weak, revise it or cross it out.

Your credo will change over time. The belief system of a young writer who has recently left home may evolve as that writer ages and becomes a parent. A teenager may have strong beliefs about fairness, autonomy, freedom, sex, peer pressure, bullying, the nature of education, and the future. His older self may be more concerned with concepts of security, meaning, legacy, tradition, responsibility, safeguarding, family, and regret. If you ever revisit your credo, you might find that your perspective has evolved, and that certain strong beliefs don’t motivate you anymore. That’s ok. You are a work in progress. Your writing will naturally reflect the evolution of your values.

Why write a credo?

Some writers find that a credo gives them a greater feeling of purpose when they write and can contribute themes and concepts to their work. A credo can connect you more intimately to your creative work, ensuring that you focus your limited time on what matters most. Does your writing reflect your values or what you want to share? Are you crafting stories that create the effect you wish to see in your reader? A credo provides both a compass and a measuring stick, pointing you where you want to go and a way to compare your results to your intentions.

A credo can prompt creative inspirations. As you write your belief statement, characters, scenes, and stories may present themselves. The act of identifying your most important values can point towards new ideas and concepts you haven’t explored. Are you stuck in the middle of a story with no way out? Consider whether your story reflects your values and if it would benefit from a stronger examination. Find the compass and the guideposts in your credo and apply them to your writing.

You may feel more confident in your writing and more excited to work on your next project. You may find it easier to express yourself, guide your stories, or talk about your writing with others. You will have a clearer statement of your values, which you have examined and selected with purpose, and a chance to explore and test them in your writing. You may find that your writing has greater depth, purpose, and meaning. You might find yourself thinking more deeply and realize you have more to say than you believed.

Writing a credo can connect you to parts of your inner life that you’ve neglected or not yet discovered. You may uncover hidden beliefs, or even biases and resentments. You might hit some emotional roadblocks that need bulldozing. You might embrace new ideas or concepts. You might even identify strong beliefs that conflict, such as the conundrum of having tolerance for everyone’s beliefs, except those whose beliefs you find intolerant. Writing your credo provides you the opportunity to reconcile and align conflicting values into a whole.

A credo is worthwhile only to the extent that you want one, and the results are only as good as the effort you put into it. No one will ever see it. There’s no reward for writing one. I encourage you to write it out long-hand, if you can. I’ve found that embracing the physical act of writing creates a stronger connection to my thoughts and emotions.

What next?

I’m going to write one. I created a credo years ago when I started writing seriously. I may have it tucked away somewhere, but from what I recall, much of it is outdated. Naturally, it was filled with the concerns of a much younger man. I don’t think my values or beliefs have changed radically, but I’m sure they’ve evolved and my worries are different. I have more experience, more lessons learned, more to say.

I think my writing would benefit if I made a more conscious effort to express my values and world view. Certainly my values come out in my writing – I don’t believe we can help ourselves – but I can’t say that I’m creating with intention. In places where I’ve gotten stuck, the key question that comes to mind is what am I trying to say? A credo could help me figure out what I want to say and find places in my writing where I’ve gone astray or left it off the page entirely.

If you’ve written a credo or are considering it, drop a comment! Tell me one thing you believe.

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