Writing Wednesdays
Write What You Don’t Know
By Steven Pressfield | Published: June 2, 2010
[Writing Wednesdays is taking a break this week. Here's a favorite from last year. ]
Probably the most classic kernel of writing advice is “Write What You Know.” On the surface, that seems to make a lot of sense, and I’m sure it has worked for thousands and thousands of writers. It didn’t work for me.
When I was a beginning writer I had two literary heroes: Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway. A lot of aspiring writers in my era had those guys as heroes. Kerouac and Hemingway weren’t so much my heroes for what they wrote (though that was a big part of it); it was more the ethic under which they did their writing.
Their stuff seemed to be really true. They took it from events they had really lived, people they had really known, wisdom and insights they had garnered in real life. I admired that. It seemed manly and honorable and hairy-chested. I strove to do that myself. I hacked out three novels, none of which saw the light of publication, that were my version of that ethic. The books weren’t terrible. There was a lot of good stuff in them. But they weren’t any good either. They never rose to the level at which I could in good conscience ask another human being to read them.
What saved my life was dumping that ethic. I was living in New York City then, down to about twenty bucks, had just finished the third of those manuscripts and was showing it to friends and getting back that plastic frozen smile when I asked them what they thought of it. I was about three days away from hanging myself. Then from somewhere I got the idea to try a screenplay. For some reason, the change of medium freed me. It gave me permission to make stuff up. I decided to try a story and characters that had nothing to do with me and nothing to do with my real life.
It worked. Here’s my theory on why:
The part of us that we write from is far deeper than our everyday selves. In fact it has nothing whatsoever to do with our everyday selves. It comes from the Muse. It comes from the unconscious. It comes from some place we only tap into in dreams or intuition or inspiration.
Good things happen when we write from that place.
When we write only what we know, we limit ourselves to territory we’ve already covered. When we write what we don’t know, we launch ourselves into terra incognita. That’s where the good stuff is.
The first piece I ever did following this advice was a screenplay about prison. I’ve never been arrested; I don’t know anything about life behind bars. But when the script was done and I showed it around, people would tug me aside and whisper, “Hey, man, where’d you do time?”
That was a revelation to me. And it’s proved itself again and again. In writing, when I make something up completely, the reaction is often, “Wow, that was convincing as hell.” When I write from reality, people tell me, “Dude, I didn’t buy that shit for a minute!”
It takes a little madness to write what you don’t know. It’s like leaping into the deep end. But it’s also tremendously liberating. I’m reading a wonderful book now called Improv Wisdom by Patricia Ryan Madson, who for years was one of the star teachers of drama at Stanford. Her thesis is “Don’t prepare, just show up.” In other words, trust in the mystery. Open your mouth and see what comes out. I’ve heard Jackson Browne say that he writes songs to find out what he thinks about something. In other words, he doesn’t know going in.
If you’re a writer (or any kind of aspiring artist or entrepreneur) and you find yourself stuck, a good trick is to just write (or enact) something completely from left field. If you’re a man, try something in the voice of a woman. Write something from another century, from Mongolia, from Mars. Just plunge in and wing it.
I’ve found, in more than one instance, that I can write characters who are more intelligent than I am. I don’t know Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep but I’ll bet if you or I met them, they’d be the nicest, most decent people imaginable. Yet look at the range of characters they’ve played–and been completely convincing doing it. I’m sure Anthony Hopkins is a wonderful, sweet guy. But he scared the crap out of me as Hannibal Lecter.
There’s stuff “down there” in all of us. It’s vast and deep and limitless. That’s the vein we need to mine as artists and as entrepreneurs. I’ve heard start-up businessmen say the two qualities they needed most in their initial ventures were arrogance and ignorance. You gotta be a little crazy (or desperate) to write or do what you don’t know. But there’s great wisdom and magic in that act. It demonstrates faith in the universe, in the Muse, in the source of all inspiration. And that faith, almost invariably, is rewarded by the cosmos and vindicated by events. I recommend it.
[This week's signed "War of Art" goes to Patricia Ryan Madson, not for any specific quote but for her terrific book, "Improv Wisdom," which is an inspiration to me. Thanks, Patricia! Everyone else, keep sending in them quotes!]
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Steve, these Writing Wednesdays are great. I look forward to reading them. I really think you should combine a story of your life and the art of writing into a book. I’d buy a case of the books as gifts. Thank you for sharing your wisdom.
Writing Wednesdays are terrific. Time for a “War of Art” blogsite in addition to “War & Reality in Afghanistan?”
Jeff – check out “The War of Art” by Steve – you can buy a case of those!
I have a first addition David. But you’re right. The WoA would be a great gift!
Wow. I mean first “edition.” Too much coffee. Time to fire my editor.
Steve, ostensibly, you are discussing creation of fiction. There’s an old saying,” if you really want to learn a subject, set out to teach it.” I found that most true when responsibly taking on coaching baseball (as a basketball kinda guy), and professionally when my work migrated to designing, planning, controling, then analyzing complex training exercises centered on acts of terrorism and homeland security. As a retired Naval aviator, previously involved in flight test events and “war-at-sea” type exercises, creating realism for Law Enforcement, Fire, and Emergency Managers required a whole new education.
As you state, I created events far otside my past experience, then with much concern had to run the scenarios past “real” folks. Amazed at their acceptance, but more at what I learned. Without real intent, re-invented my professional life. The Project White Horse endeavor/website is an “intersection” if you will of understanding out of past experience and jumping into a “deep end” I knew little about. Side note – cops and firemen are a lot like fighter pilots, go figure.
Great stuff, keep rolling!
Ed@PWH
As a Jackson Browne fan from all the way back (“For a Dancer” is still one of my all time favorite anthems) I was pleased to just learn from your post that JB’s read E.M. Forster, who was the first creative spirit I came across to state that: “I write in order to learn what I think.”
Thanks for a great post, a great blog, and a great manifesto, in “The War of Art” … how helpful that book has been to my writing, and my outlook on life, is beyond words.
Pax,
John
Great posting – I wonder though, were you that good with creating fictional stuff because you had already paid your dues by writing about real life experiences? Perhaps your writing was good enough for any outlet by then – it just happened to be a screenplay that “freed” you?
Few things please a writer more than having her work cited by one of her heros. Thank you for mentioning IMPROV WISDOM as an example of books that lead the way into that divine realm of “terra incognita.” It is true that when we get out of our own way and trust that the Muses will descend, amazing things can emerge. Your book The War of Art has been one of my Muses along the way.
What a pleasure to be in your company.
Patricia Ryan Madson
Back from vacation!! Resistance got me hard this time! I did not do anything I had planned. Nice topic, Steven. Why do I feel that you have a hidden camera in my desk? Ha! I guess that I am having some paranoid thought, well just to be in tune with some of my patients . I am trying to get as much information about certain topic I am trying to write about (in Spanish for more than obvious reasons). Call it Resistance, as you mentioned 2 weeks ago, I just feel that I need to have a solid background to put in on paper, specially dealing with historical events. It does not look very good so far, but the more I read and research, more ideas appear.
Thank you for this timely reminder, Steven. I have shyed away from what I “don’t know,” but I invariably get the same response from readers when I write from personal experience. Perhaps something in us unconsciously holds back from the truth, when we’re basing our stories on fact and experience. Truth has nothing to do with fact in the end … it’s deeper and more complex than that. I will be brave and dive in to uncharted territory!
Great post, Steve.
This was something I too had to learn.
Several years ago in a creative fiction workshop at college, I wrote a short story that was, as I thought correct, pretty deeply rooted in what I know (or what I knew at 19). Hard ranch living, alcoholic patriarchs, poverty, etc. It was good, in that way of being good that’s not technically bad, but still isn’t worth a damn.
There were two sections of the story though, which every person who read it singled out and had high praise for. Both of them were, at the time, among the biggest packs of lies I’d ever put to paper. And the readers were right, they were really good. The scenes and the characters resonated with a humanity and depth that lacked in the rest of it.
It really shook me because I felt very uncomfortable with those scenes – They were bold-faced lies. I’d never been to Iraq, didn’t smoke cigarettes, had never killed my father. It was difficult to break from the “write what you know” model, it wasn’t comfortable. I was always scared that someone would see that I was lying.
The next story I wrote for that semester long workshop was a leap of faith. I wrote about a heroin addict, something I’ve never been or had much association with. The next session after the copies had been passed out to the other students, one of them pulled me aside. An older guy, in his sixties, he put an iron hand on my shoulder, steered me into a corner and asked how long I’d been using. There was an honest fear in his eyes. When I’d convinced him I was clean, he quietly told me about his years of heroin abuse and addiction. He thought it almost impossible that I’d gotten some of the small details right as an outsider, hence his concern.
After that, I was sold. Still scared of hanging it out there like that, but sold.
I’ve always held to the idea that if you’re writing scared of what’s going down on the paper, you’re in good territory. A lot of people seem to think this applies only to when you’re writing from your past, your experiences, and delving into some deep, ugly, area of your own history. I disagree.
In fiction, you can go into the deep, nasty, bog of your past and still be quite comfortable – There is a deception there, the ugliness of it says “I’m writing the good shit, this is really getting down to the heart of it.” When the reality is that you’re putting down material that was old and dead by the time you put it on the paper, and will be even older and deader when the reader sees it.
I think there is more value to “writing scared”, in generalizing it to when you’re pushing yourself, at the raggedy edge and taking chances with your craft. It’s a headlong, almost falling, sensation, hanging yourself out there and risking it. In the throws of creation, taking the risks of creating a fiction, I am still scared that someone will see through my lies. I don’t know what I’m talking about, and will be seen for the sham hack rather than an artful observer of the human condition. And that’s where my best writing gets done, it seems.
This isn’t to say I find no value at all in experience and writing what I know. More to say that, what I know isn’t the meat of what’s being created.
Effective lies/creations/fictions that move and motivate people, contain elements of truth. Structure, framework, places to hold on that ring as true. I look at it sort of like truth is a vessel into which a creation is placed. The body, what’s important, what goes into the reader, is what it contains. It is meaningless, simply a form needed for them to pick up and imbibe from.
Our experiences provide temper for our lies. They give us perspective and suggestions. We know the sky is blue, and the water at Coronado beach tastes salty. What we don’t know is what our characters and our story are going to do about it.
Really enjoying Writing Wednesdays, and everything else, thank you!
Great advice — here and in War of Art, which I only recently discovered. Thank you for your wisdom. I intend to frequent this page regularly!