Continuing, then. From the need to Tell the Truth, to be Honest, to the intestinal fortitude to do the same. So, courage, in this context, works in two forms that blend and blur.
You can’t tell the truth if you don’t have the courage to do it.
Put it another way: if, as I have argued, good writing is emotionally honest writing, this requires, in turn, the courage to be the same. All writers write from themselves, and thus, in some manner or fashion, they are writing about themselves. English majors and professors of literature and critics of various and sundry qualifications love this; they adore reading into the text, the idea that what has made it to page or screen is more about the writer than the story. That’s not what I mean. That’s not what I’m talking about. This isn’t Mary Sue-ism, this isn’t wish-fulfillment, and rarely is it as blatant as the audience (and particular, certain critics) believe. Just because a character in a novel I once wrote had an abortion doesn’t mean that my girlfriend at the time did the same. The line is not so straight, nor the connections so literal.
A writer’s ability to empathize is part of their creativity, a necessary part. But it isn’t enough to take what we know, what we have experienced, and then to drop it on our characters, into our stories. If it’s going to work, it’s going to have to be raw, unvarnished, naked. It’s going to have to draw on those things that make us uncomfortable and nervous and embarrassed. Our empathy for our characters is going to make use feel those things for our creations, our stories. In pursuit of the emotional core, we strip ourselves, mine ourselves, and thus expose ourselves. We are not writing for ourselves, whatever we may say to the contrary; if we were, we’d never want to be published. We’re writing to show our work to others. We are, always, presenting ourselves to be judged.
That’s never fun. That’s never easy. This is, incidentally, one of the reasons why certain writers often come across as either arrogant or aloof. That’s armor, that’s simple self-defense. When you release a story into the world to be accepted and praised or rejected and loathed, you are putting yourself into the world in the same way, no matter how much you might wish to pretend otherwise, no matter how far you seek to remove yourself from your creation. This is why, for the most part, most writers hate most critics, I think; the critic assumes the role of judge, and much like a FIFA referee, dispenses their assaults and accolades from a position that is almost impossible to assail. The writer – especially in the age of the interwebs – is vulnerable from all sides. And I would argue that the writer must be – if you’re telling the truth, if you’re committed to your craft, then there is a necessary investment in your work. If you spend 100 days building a model boat, only to have your best friend – or a total stranger – tell you that it stinks, you got it wrong, that’s going to hurt.
Even if it’s true.
This is not to say that all criticism is invalid, of course, nor that writers must be handled with kid-gloves. But if you write, and if you publish, you are going to be judged. And amidst those judgments, there will invariably be someone who is braying for your head on a pike. Sometimes literally. Someone, somewhere, someway, some day. Because if the First Rule is “Show, Don’t Tell,” and the Second Rule is “Write What You Know,” then the Third Rule is as follows:
You are never going to write something that everyone will like.
(I think of this as the Mark Twain Corollary, going hand-in-hand with his quote about a classic being “a book that people praise but don’t read.” As far as it goes, I’m totally making up these Rules. There are rules, to be certain. But I’m not actually a huge fan of them beyond the most basic as listed above.)
Thus, you, dear writer, you’re going to get it in the teeth. Sometimes you’re going to get it in the belly. Sometimes you’re going to be taken to the ground and curb-stomped something vicious, and even better, sometimes it’ll be by someone who is accusing you of writing exactly what you weren’t.
So you damn well better have the courage to take the beating. You damn well better have the courage to sit down and write it anyway. You damn well better have the courage to shout down your lesser angels that are telling you that you cannot do this, that you will fail, that it is too hard, too difficult, too time-consuming, that nobody will care, that it will never be good enough.
Writing is not a static craft. I believe, with absolute heart, that one can never be “good enough.” Writing demands better, that what you attempt tomorrow reaches further, is more informed, is more refined, is more expert than what you delivered yesterday.
This leads to a more nuanced Courage. There’s a note above my bride‘s desk in her office, just a little Post-It, I’m not sure when she wrote it, and I’m not sure what the project was she wrote it about. “Courage to Fail.”
This is, more than anything else, crucial, in my opinion. Good writing requires risk-taking. It requires taking the story places you’re not comfortable with it going, sometimes. This is not writing for effect. This is writing honestly, so honestly that you question whether it’s too much, and yes, sometimes it is.
This courage requires a commitment to writing scenes that, frankly, can scare you – both in their content and in your faith in your own ability. These are moments that, as you work, make your stomach clench with butterflies and that make your heart race. And it is wise to remember, those moments? Sometimes, those moments, done right, are the moments that will do the same to your audience. Those moments that scare you, those raw, frightening moments? Those are the moments, perhaps, of the greatest possibility, where you can forge the purest connection with your audience. Those are the moments of resonance.
Those are the moments that are remembered.
Next week, whips, chains, and Discipline.
Hold fast!
Greg




