The question I ask most…
When I’m writing, do I most often wonder what people will think of my opus? Do I wonder if I’ll sell a crillion copies and end up living in a big house with Nicholas Sparks as my next door neighbor? Do I wonder if Miramax will want to talk movie rights?
All I ever wonder, with every sentence I type sometimes, is…Do I know anything?
Do I even have the right to write? I’m telling a story about people I don’t hobnob with, about whom I know nothing besides what I read second-hand and then synthesize. I don’t know any famous people close-up. I am very flattered that a recent reader posting to one of my entries assumed I was some sort of expert on the subject.
But I am a writer who doesn’t like to write strictly what I know. That’s boring. I have had a good day writing when I’ve learned something; I write to try to understand things. I am not one of those first-time novelists who writes thinly-disguised autobiography–in fact, at one point when I saw a way the story could turn more personal I got frightened, and after some considerations steered away from it. I know there have been masterpieces produced that way. But I don’t think it would work for me. For starters, my life is just about the most boring show on earth. That’s why I write fiction.
So I go out on a limb and write things I have absolutely no business writing about. That’s my blessing…and my curse.
(P.S.: Hope y’all had a good holiday. I wrote (I think) a good scene last night, so I did.)