Wordplay

I admit I always laugh in my sleeve when I hear an author proclaiming we all must “write what we know.” This tidbit of advice is often touted as a cardinal rule of writing, with the inherent implication being that if you aren’t 1) a brilliant scientist/mathematician/geologist/linguist/ tactician/psychologist or 2) an uber-wealthy jetsetter with the time and money to fly all over the place and experience everything possible, you really don’t have any business writing books.


Whoever came up with this rule obviously didn’t credit imagination too much. In fact, it would seem said person probably didn’t have much imagination. Think about it. Fiction, at its very essence, is all about what we don’t know. Last week, I quoted William Styron, who said, “Isn’t all art a search for an answer to a question which can’t even be spoken?” I have little to no interest in writing about the things I know. Not only would that severely curb my pool of writing resources, it would also limit me to regurgitating my life.


And that would get pretty boring pretty fast. If I wrote only about what I know, all my stories would probably end up being about twenty-somethings who work at their editing/programming/graphic designing desk jobs eight hours a day, five days a week, spend Saturday mornings in bed reading, and encounter adventure and excitement mostly through their own klutziness and occasional stupidity. Not exactly what you had in mind for your next beach read, is it? Me neither.


I write about places I’ve never been, cultures I’ve never experienced, people I’ll never meet. The last time I checked, gunslingers, crusading knights, and dragons weren’t offering interview appointments. Neither can I afford to globetrot my way to Syria, Chicago, London, Nigeria, and points beyond, every time I need to start researching. (We won’t even mention the fact that one of those brilliant scientist people I mentioned in the first paragraph have yet to perfect a time machine that would send me back to the Middle Ages or the Old West.)


But I’ll tell you a secret: I like it this way. Writing novels gives me the opportunity to experience what I don’t know. If I lived in Chicago, rode the Metro everyday, and saw Sears Tower out my window every morning, I doubt I would have had any interest in writing about it in my fantasy novel Dreamers Come. But, because I’ve never been to Chicago, never ridden the Metro, never seen Sears Tower—every moment spent researching these things was an adventure.


If fiction is about answering questions, then I certainly have no need to rehash my own life on the page. I live that everyday; the answers are right in front of me. I’d much rather experience the untouchable.


Now, that said, let me do a major 180 and mention that I emphatically believe that we should all write what we know. (Gotcha, didn’t I?) Knowing your subject matter is vital. But who says you can’t know it vicariously? That’s where research comes into play. If I wrote about the 12th-century Kingdom of Jerusalem and referred to all the natives as Israelis, I would promptly pop any knowledgeable reader’s bubble of disbelief and destroy my credibility as a writer. But, if I do my research, if I read the books, study the maps, and interview the experts, I’ll be able to write both what I know—and what I don’t.

Story by K.M. Weiland

Tags: dreamers come , research