“Write about what you know, Anne.” That’s was my mother’s knee-jerk response every time I mentioned my idea to finally push my sleeves up and get down to the dirty business of writing a book.
Historically, my mother had always been an undiagnosed romance book junkie, except I couldn’t recall her ever having a moment to herself to read. Instead, she subjected us to countless hours of movie and television adaptations of her favorite love stories. Anne of Green Gables? Absolutely. Jane Eyre (the version starring Timothy Dalton only need apply, thankyouverymuch!)? Yes and yes. If I took the time to do the math, Mom had probably spent years of her life engrossed in someone else’s love, and nearly always from a completely different era. Writing about what I knew, advice from L. M. Montgomery’s leading fella, Gilbert Blythe, to Anne Shirley, his future Mrs. Blythe, was a tall order. I hadn’t led a life full of hijinks, ambition, or flirtation. I’d never tried (and failed) to balance on the a ridgepole of a house, found the courage to spit out biting remarks to hateful gossips, or confronted my boss about the deranged lady imprisoned in his attic.
The list of subjects I knew resembled a hastily-scribbled note for forgotten items from my last shopping trip. Topics I had little to no knowledge of likely could fill volumes of books, which could, in turn, pour out endlessly from countless rooms.
‘Writing what you know’ sounds like the easiest task in the world, especially to a self-proclaimed writer. But what happens if you write what you know and it’s so minuscule you can’t bear it?
What if the words staring back at you when they’ve all poured out are dull, pathetic, horrifying or a depressing cocktail of all of the above? Maybe readers will lack the patience for my sniveling that my loved ones do because, well, they’re somehow morally obligated. Instead of holding the title of “spoiled brat” within the warped confines of my family, the rest of the world will nod in agreement and I’ll be screwed. For life. Or until every last character I’ve put to page falls from memory, which, admittedly, is likely time measured in minutes rather than years.
“Write!” They insist. “You’re so funny. You need to write!”
It’s been my experience that people are usually funny for a reason. Making people laugh is the human equivalent of a turtle shell. Find a comedian and dig real deep, and eight times out of ten you’ll figure it out pretty quick. Fat pants, crater-y face, sloshed dad, family in tatters--bet that kid ended up a laugh riot. Those who are wounded find unique ways to protect themselves and float along.
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