Actually, yes, I can imagine what you're going through...

When you work in a restaurant, you wind up an eavesdropper. I could try and paint this as a writing perk, claim that listening in on people gives me a better feel for dialogue (and it does), but mostly I enjoy catching snippets of conversations because I'm nosey.

It just so happens that this particular snippet pertains to writing:

“Of course everyone loves the book,” one twenty-something-year-old guy says to his friend. “It’s about a woman who’s lost her child. How can you not feel bad for her? You’re an asshole if you don’t.”

“I hate when authors do that.”

“What?”

“Male author writes from the perspective of a woman.”

“He’s not even married.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even have a kid.”

“Yet he’s writing about child loss.”

“As a woman.”

“That’s so insincere.”

“Unless you’ve suffered through something like that, you’ve got no business talking about it.”

---

While I appreciate the maxim Write what you know, the conversation’s implication is that a writer can’t possibly describe something without experiencing it. There’s a pseudo-validity to this thought process. How can someone write about heartbreak if they’ve never been in a relationship? How can someone write about camaraderie if they’ve never had a best friend? About losing a loved one if all their relatives+friends are still around? About parenting if they’re childless? About drug-addiction if they’ve never touched a hard substance?

The answer is research and imagination.

Otherwise this line of questioning can become: how could someone write about the horrors of the Holocaust without having been in the Holocaust? About killing despite never having murdered someone? About medieval wars when they were born in the twentieth century? About a disgruntled demon without ever having ventured into the underworld?

Imagination grants the ability to empathize. Just because you’ve never walked in someone’s shoes doesn’t mean you can’t imagine what’d it be like to wear them. Certainly it’s helpful to have to a large collection of experiences to draw from—that goes for any artist—but to believe someone should only write about events they’ve personally undergone is bonkers.  Entire genres would disappear. Hell, the fun of writing would disappear.

Writing is an exploration. Sometimes it’s an exploration of self—an autobiographic examination, the kind of writing the two guys I overheard would approve—but other times it’s an outward adventure. An exploration of people and places and situations that may never have been encountered in the author’s day-to-day life. A game of what-if's and how's.

What if someone grew up under these circumstances? How would they react if this happened? If they met someone like this while in the middle of that?

And sure, should an author explore a situation in an unbelievable fashion, if the author has incorrectly answered the what-if's, the writing will seem insincere. Just as we spot bad acting because the actor never took the time to believably flesh out his/her character, we will spot bad stories. They won’t ring true. But to dismiss an author’s work because he isn’t Y is as bad as dismissing an actor’s performance because he never truly experienced X.

Let's judge the quality of what is being presented as opposed to what is behind the scenes.

Into the Blogosphere we go!

Like much of modern social networking—tweeting/video diaries/FB status updates—blogging strikes me as a vain enterprise. No matter how you cut it, at some point every blogger decides they’re important enough to warrant an outside reader’s investment of time. These writers assume they possess the power to entertain or educate. When we stumble across a blogger’s sexual escapades or struggle with cancer or baking tips, if these writers are successful, we forgive them their vanity. Their ego played to our desire for knowledge or catharsis or voyeurism, and now it’s a mutual exchange: our patronage for their posts. A win-win.

But sometimes it’s a lose-lose. I’ll read entries comparable to those painful videos on youtube, the figurative and literal equivalent of people entertaining themselves by making faces in the mirror. We’re obsessed with our individual selves. That can’t be helped. You define your reality: you have every right to be interested in you. But to believe complete strangers will share in your self-infatuation is a mistake. There needs to be more on the table than zany facial expressions.

Writers are encouraged to start blogs. It's how they connect with current (and in my case: potential) readers. Despite knowing this, for years I avoided blogging out of fear of seeming conceited. What did I have to offer beyond unsolicited pontifications? What would separate me from the the guy who films his crummy lip-synching because he's convinced he's cute/hilarious? The answer: not much.

I should have gotten over myself. 

Wanting to write fiction for a career is narcissistic. I can’t dance around it. I’m assuming what I like to do is not only worthy of other people’s time, but their money (time x 2?). I hate to come across as arrogant, but blog or no blog, I’m delusional if I believe my ego has no stake in this. 

So here it is: a self-promotional blog centered around my stories and thoughts.

And here's the lowdown: I'm horror-obsessed. I've been that way since I was four. I'm approximately a month away from self-publishing a horror novella. I don’t chase trends or write what I think will make it “big.”  I write for myself. I write what I want to read, and I hope that somewhere out there exists an audience with tastes similar to mine. As I begin my foray into the self-publishing world, I imagine this will resemble cooking a favorite meal for a potluck and watching to see if the contribution is well received. Although given the overcrowded market, I know I’ll need to occasionally point to where I set my dish on the table.