Writing What You Know- Yay or Nay?

"Write what you know."

It is a piece of advice that has been around for years, having authors now debating and defending. On advising articles, I have read endlessly about writing what it is most familiar, what is felt and experienced. Fickle, I too have tried to wrap my head around this. Before I wrote my first novel, I went through character sketch after character sketch only to find them in the waste basket.

That's where they always found themselves.

I didn't succeed later with finishing a novel until I focused less on how much I knew. Even though Skewed is autobiographical, there were several elements completely foreign to me- domestic abuse, drug/substance abuse, and murder within a family. That's what allowed me to step outside of my comfort zone for the sake of the reader. All in all, isn't that my imagination taking control? As a creative writer, it truly does a body good to actually be creative. It is not always easy to put one's self in another person's shoes (not to mention the criticism you will receive), but it helps you learn a lot about other people.

As far as setting and characterization goes, it also benefits the brain to learn a bit, concerning maybe India's geography or majors at Yale.

Do whatever works for you. If your heart is feeling expressing your latest heart break, and you'd really like to get back at the whore who did it to you, then you know what you must do. You will have greater character development of Tommy who was just left at the altar. But, if you would rather write about bullied Keith and research symptoms of teenage depression, don't be afraid to learn something!

Stay creative and happy writing! <3

My Faith & My Writing

It seems these two come hand in hand.

I went through a rough period a few months ago. I lost all ambition- through literature and through life itself. When I awoke, I saw the same grey clouds, drowning out my energy. No longer existed the sing-songy sun praising my highest achievements and calling for more and more. I picked up the pen. I put down the pen. I dressed nicely. I longed to go back to sleep. I ran mindlessly around town. I felt without a purpose. I saw the rest of the world. They couldn't see me.  Most would have diagnosed me with depression, but I like to think of it as the day I died- spiritually.

I needed to be reborn.

Stumbling onto the floor, I clasped my hands together and whispered through the sobs, "Father God, I need You more now than ever. I don't have any motivation. I hate myself. I hate everything I've done. I can't do the same things that made me happy. I feel nothing at all anymore. Please...just help me be the person I once was. In Your name..." I didn't stop the tears; they arrived as if through a broken pipe. "Amen."

Little did I know that God was planning everything. He already created the future, my destiny. He just needed me to hold on and not do anything stupid. Knowing me, this wouldn't be simple.

I can still remember how sweet those rose tulips smelled. The beaming sun helped not only the plants  but my heart grow twice the size of the moon. Alone on this journey I traveled. Looking at the swaying tree branches, how the leaves traveled simultaneously, I was becoming one with nature. With each step I was becoming anew- bigger and stronger. 

"Mom!" I bellowed, throwing open the front door. I charged up the stairs, ignoring her curious greeting. The Hulk, I slammed my bedroom door behind me and plunged onto my oak wood desk. My hands groped its exterior. "Oh, have I missed you..."

To Judge or To Not Judge

You know what really hurts?

Being judged.

I mean, I've been judged in the past. Who hasn't? We all have certain qualities that stand out from the rest. That's not a bad thing. In fact, I find it glamorous! Learning about Walt Whitman has given me a lot of insight on individuality, how he still managed to be successful. Being bisexual and writing about it caused him quite a few head aches. Leaves of Grass is still considered one of the most controversial pieces ever written, remarkable considering its time period.

I suppose it is human nature: to look at something, scrutinizing, and notice that some aspects aren't comparable to yours.

I bet you're judging me right now.

But, just because something is engraved into our brains, does that necessarily make it just?

The first way to forgive ourselves is to forgive others, to realize that people make mistakes, that people are people. If all people are people, then we must be all the same, unified. It isn't this simple, though. We descend from different families, different cultures, and a lot of our behavior is hereditary. On the other hand, concepts such as religion, perception, and politics are mostly decided as we age. These things are a part of free will.

Thus,  though it seems tempting to decide who a person is before confrontation, it can be considerate and rewarding to not do so.

Atticus seemed to have gotten it right:

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” 

The Novel-Writing Process

Emerson's Philosophy

The decision to participate in Nanowrimo was the most influential. Nanowrimo is an acronym for “National Novel Writing Month”. Through this free program, one must scrounge together fifty thousand words- all through thirty days that seem to morph together. With work and school and dance, I doubted my abilities.

All my life, I have been infatuated with pen-to-paper interaction. I obsessed over spilling my emotions onto pages and pages of literary murals. As I flipped through previous pieces, I wanted something more, something unattempted. I strived to dive deep into the waters of contemporary authors. What does it take to string together a novel? A lot of dedication and time. Did I know how to manage time, or for that matter, be dedicated? The mere thought of commitment bewildered me. I am only sixteen, I thought repeatedly. My mother and father praised but questioned my constant craft, the seemingly dead-end career. Though I enjoyed carrying cash wads, the devil stole my heart and gave it to those who worship Poe and Shakespeare. As a result, I poured my heart and soul into something that may never see the light of day.

It was late October- the colorful trees swaying with the breeze, inspiring me somehow. I look out my window. A woman strides with her two jack russell pups, they dragging her with them. I don’t want to be like that woman. I want to be an independent soul. I want to be an intellectual with great insight on the world and all its inhabitants. I want to liberate myself from my own body. With my mind, I paint a million different possibilities.

Racing, racing, I return to my desk. It welcomes me with open arms, along with a stack of neglected homework. Spanish Three and Algebra Two does not matter- at least not right now. Right now, the present, I want to build a world with words. I feel a story arise in my heart. There is a character; her name is Ryley Simmons. She has not left me alone! Last night, pillow tossed onto the floor, I begged her to stop poking my side and flicking my ear. She kept bellowing her story to me. When she would not quit, things turned physical- her powerful paintbrush flicking waves of hatred. I awoke, pools of sweat under my arms. I was fortunately unaccompanied and unscathed. I carried my day as if I were victorious.

I scribble her life verbatim, less than twenty-four hours later.

It hits me all so hard- her fragmented life and all its pieces. I recap her love for sketches, how it compared to my words, and how she deeply impacted another’s life. What bothered me was her reluctance to share who exactly this other was, and why exactly they meant mountains. Pencil dancing, I completed chart after chart about Ryley- everything from her favorite food to her shoe size. I wanted to fill every shadow but would never fabricate. Still, as much as I could describe her tragedy, I could not understand who created everything. She had been heart-broken, torn, forgotten. Something other than God Himself stirred that trouble. Masterpieces turning into trash, I could not, for the life of me, discover the other figure.

“What if her match was the exact opposite?” I think aloud, and everything changes. I remember how outgoing and loud Ryley was, how she never feared to take chances. What if this opposing person stayed up at night fearing her parent’s opinions? What if, while Ryley intoxicated herself, the other attended strict Bible studies with these parents? What if this other person wanted more than anything to please her sweet, sweet Ryley, but something supernatural prevented such? Slowly, I was cracking the case. I loathed cliches; I loathed recurring themes. Temptation swindled my finger with his, his lips too close to mine. Controversy invited me. Glancing at the filled trash can, I refused to be another tragedy. I would leave that to my characters.

Ryley and Meg’s story needed to be written.

“What are you doing in there, Elizabeth?” I hear my father cry, his monstrous fist barreling into my bedroom door. I swear he is going to ruin that thing someday. “Don’t you have schoolwork to do? Why are you always writing? It’s all you ever do!” Headphones plugged in, I continue to bob my head and allow the words to flow.

Day after day, from three in the afternoon to midnight, I devote my everything to this project. I hush my constant criticizing voices. I agree to receiving a few red marks. I consume far too much coffee and green tea. Even when I do not express myself, I am constantly using the world as my greatest resource, my greatest inspiration. Nature is especially intriguing. It seems so natural to abandon my piece, but I know too well that one day turns into two, and two into forevermore. At awkward family gatherings, I primarily dodge the anticipated question:

“What are you writing about?”

It is such a simple request that holds so much tension. The need to know can drive a person mad, the curiosity fetal. I understand their eagerness but hope they understand my privacy, my reasons for burial. After all, ignorance has been said to be bliss.

I will forever remember the night: Saturday, November 30th, 2013. After creating the world’s ugliest monster, my personal Frankenstein, I must leave it to the world now. Much like disrespectful children, my work is society’s burden. I decide to name it Skewed, its title shining with both truth and extended metaphor. “Why are you so dedicated to something that doesn’t reward you back?” my mind snickers, simply jealous. Intuition always conquers.

“Liz, we want to hear about your novel,” my teacher tells me as I arrive at her club. My cheeks immediately turn into fire. I am so incredibly honored. Tongue-tied, I have the slightest clue of where to begin. Truthfully, this experience has rewarded me more than anything. I now can say that I have at least written a novel. I remained faithful in the ugliest times, similar to a marriage. Where it goes from here is irrelevant. Like Emerson once said, “It’s about the journey, not the destination.”

Hello!

Today is officially my first day of blogging.

I guess I will begin by telling you fifteen writerly facts about myself. :)

1. I enjoy writing contemporary romance & spiritual work.
2. I listen to a lot of Coldplay and, actually, depressing music. It inspires me the most.
3. I have a lot of trouble writing while I'm happy.
4. Nature makes me want to never put down the pen.
5. I am a prewriting kind of person. I cannot create solid characters without character sketches.
6. I wrote a book, Skewed, for NaNoWriMo, and it was easily the best decision of my life.
7. I have been writing for 11 years-ever since I was six.
8. I am planning to major in English & Literature at some nice college. (Not sure where yet...hahaha)
9. My favorite author is Jodi Picoult. All of her work amazes me.
10. To say I am obsessed with quotes is quite an understatement. I litter my room with everything from Emerson to Will Smith.
11. I loooove deep writing that is either insightful or metaphoric. Or both. If it makes me think, it's getting a spot on my shelf.
12. When I feel creatively insecure, I try to think of J.K. Rowling. That woman literally had nothing and managed to be one of America's most remembered authors.
13. If it's controversial, I have to fling that monster to the public.
14. I try to write every day. Blogging isn't technically writing-writing, but it's something at least. Writing every day means improvement, and I have much room for that.
15. I will never quit.