I made it up. I made it all up.

A girl in my writing class (one of the more talented ones, sadly) says she doesn’t really like being a writer, but that she doesn’t feel she has much choice. I understand where she’s coming from: I don’t think I have a choice about being a writer. Even if I actually stopped writing I think I would still see the world as a writer, the same way a painter looks at the world as a painter, etc. But for the most part, I like being a writer. I like being effortlessly good at something some people find difficult. I don’t mean that in a cocky way: I have no talent for music whatsoever and I hope that all you musicians out there feel lucky for being effortlessly good at something I (and many others) struggle at. And I like that this talent is useful in many different ways: it helped when I was in school, it helps in the working world, in addition to being a good hobby. But still, I think I understand her frustration. A lot of people have written a lot about the misery of creating art, and I might get to that point in another post, but to me, the main thing is this:

What I don’t particularly like about writing is the tendency of readers to look for “truth” behind the “fiction.” It’s an interesting thing to do as a reader, and I’m guilty of it, as well, although I have found that ultimately I am more pleased as a reader to read something without considering the extent to which it is “true.” For example, I might not dislike John Irving’s new books quite so much if I hadn’t read in countless interviews and reviews of the books that it’s to a very great extent an autobiographical novel. I would be able to recognize Irving in it either way, but it’s more comforting to think that certain scenes of abuse in the book came from his imagination rather than his actual childhood.

Of course, nothing goes into a book that didn’t in some way come from the writer. A reader might extrapolate metaphors or hidden meanings that an author never dream of, but the basic plot and the word choice and the tone is all from the author. I think that’s what ultimately makes me insecure.

For example, I don’t seriously worry that anyone will read the story I’m currently writing about a petty thief and decide that I must be a kleptomaniac myself. (Some people might get that impression, but it’s so patently untrue that such suspicion doesn’t worry me.) All the same, if I can portray the character convincingly and make readers believe that his descriptions and methods of theft are in fact possible, then it follows that I am able to think like a thief whether I’ve stolen anything or not. It’s not such a pleasant thought.

In a different book (one I like a lot more), John Irving wrote: “one must never not write a certain kind of novel out of fear of what the reaction to it will be.” I try to take that to heart. But if I were to write a novel about a man having an extramarital affair, could I blame my wife for being uncomfortable with that? If I were to write a story in which a married couple stalks a college aged “friend” of theirs, could I blame Erin for being apprehensive?

I could not. Because, while I’m reasonably confident that Bret Easton Ellis has never committed a murder, I know that every despicable thing that happens in American Psycho came from his imagination. Thinking isn’t doing, and to a great degree we all probably have terrible thoughts that we never share – but read American Psycho and then tell me that it wouldn’t be just a little awkward to hang out with a guy knowing that he was not only capable of imagining those things, but also willing to share those imaginations.

Years ago, I found I was profoundly affected by such self-censorship. I’m better at dealing with it now. I find I’m comfortable writing just about anything. When I’m writing well I fall into the character’s world and pretty much everything else vanishes. I no longer find myself unable to write a sex scene out of the fear that one day, inevitably, my mother will read it. The problem is that later, I might be disturbed by what I wrote and tempted to change it. Or, the part of my brain that is always thinking about the story (Irving says: “If you’re a writer, the problem is that, when you try to call a halt to thinking about your novel-in-progress, your imagination still keeps going; you can’t shut it off”) might move the plot in a less disturbing direction. And then there’s always the, “Well, I’ve written this story now, but I’m pretty much never going to show it to anyone” problem.

Still, it’s not all bad. When I hand in an assignment to my class I’m more nervous that they’ll think I’m as crazy as my character than that they’ll just think I’m a bad writer. So at least I have some confidence in my actual ability. No one said it would be easy, which is what we’ve all been trying to tell the young lady in class who is on the verge of giving up.

And now for something completely different.

Here’s a joke that was forwarded to me at work, and yes it is stupid but it reminded me of Diana:

This guy is in line at the supermarket when he notices a hot blonde behind him. When she sees him looking at her she smiles and waves with a kind of friendly recognition.

He is taken aback that such a good-looking woman would be waving to him, and although she seems somewhat familiar he can't place where he might know her from. He says, “Sorry, do you know me?”

She replies, “I may be mistaken, but I thought you might be the father of one of my children.”

His mind shoots back to the one and only time he was unfaithful.

“Oh my God," he stammers, “are you the stripper from my bachelor party that I had sex with on the pool table in front of all my friends while your girlfriend whipped me with some wet celery?”

“Um, no,” she replies, “I’m your son’s English teacher.”

Ba-dum-dum!