"Write What You Know"

            “Write what you know” has been the mantra of anyone I ever asked for advice (and some who I never really approached) about my writing. My father, my teachers, even professional-opinion-havers like people who actually get monies to write/edit/judge literature agreed: Write what you know. Why? Because… well… it’ll seem more honest. There will be a depth and sincerity to your prose otherwise lacking in a five hundred page opus of space monkeys and undead machines. Contrariwise, you can give your supernatural epic some sort of grounded human theme like loss, greed, or the great topics of the day (like is it ok to disagree with the President even though he’s black?).

            Real heady stuff.

            Regardless, it all comes back to what I know. So far I know and you can guess that I like to write. I enjoy being snarky, even if my wit isn’t always as lightning fast or razor sharp as I’d like. In my fantasy football league among college buddies, I partnered with a good friend of mine to type up a weekly recap and review of the matchups and performances. It was dry, often profane, and completely over the top. On the other hand, in college I authored (cause that sounds more professional) a 105-page thesis on the narrative history of American-educated Chinese students. Now that feels to me like an awful lot of writing for someone who gains absolutely no monetary reward from it. Hell, I don’t even get groupies or the occasional Charlie-Sheen-esque binge of Bacchanalian proportions. So at 24 years old, employed at a major retailer part-time and preparing for employment at a technology sales company, what do I do? I write.

THE CURIOUS HISTORY OF JOSH AND WRITING

            I wonder if John Irving got his start in writing by dictating Batman stories to his parents as a young child. Probably not. And if he did, mine were better. Mine had illustrations in crayon and plots only subtly changed from the movies, old TV series, or cartoons. I can say with confidence, however, that my dictations far surpass the original 60s live-action series. I didn’t have to rely on onomatopoeia. I could just say Batman punched the Riddler really, really, really hard. (I find the third “really” best communicates the incredible force applied in the Caped Crusader’s punch.)

            Like most burgeoning writers, my teens were a veritable cornucopia of creativity. Other people’s creativity. Writing from pre-teenhood through my early teens consisted of really bad fanfiction – also known as the adapted screenplay. Oh, I had an alternate future Animorphs book written, complete with self-edited and watermarked cover for Book #1. That shit was professional. Then in high school, I devoured Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series. The books are like what I imagine doing drugs to be: highly addictive, increasingly tedious, and severely harmful to your mental health. Also, they were the direct cause of no less than ten stories set in Jordan’s universe, often in collaborative online communities where my character would interact with others in their own stories. Sound nerdy and horrible and ultimately the sign of a major self-serving ego for all involved? Why, yes, here’s a cookie.

            Then, in my late teens, after years of role playing through forums, chat rooms, and messenger systems during my indoctrination as part of the first internet generation, I decided to take my first solid stab at an original creation. And I was damn ambitious about it too. I was going to be published; young and set for life. You know, like that Paolini kid that wrote those horribly cliched dragon books at age 12 or whatever. He’s famous with a huge publishing contract and churning out book after book now, right?

            Regardless, I worked long and hard to avoid those same cliches and create a brand new work of fiction, in the fantasy genre of course. Now, there is nothing wrong with fantasy. Far from it; it’s my favorite genre to read. Utter escape, and nowadays I think some of the best long-form art exists in the fantasy epic, be it Lord of the Rings or A Song of Ice and Fire. That being said, my book – never completed – was neither. And yet I treated it like my version of the Mona Lisa. Vulnerable and acne-ridden as I was at age seventeen, I thrust my “book” on as many people as possible. There were those kind souls who encouraged me, and I thank them now. I would also like to thank everyone else, like some of my closest friends from college, who endured my badgering and constant IMs. Several of my conversations with my good friend Laura during high school went like this:

Josh: Hi Laura!

Laura: hi

Josh is sending His Horrible Creation of Comma Splicing.

Laura: oh, i don’t think i have time to read that right now…

Josh: Whenever!

Ten minutes pass.

Josh: Read any yet?

Laura: no…

Imagine that, about twice a week. Or more. I’ve blocked it out mostly now. Regardless, college arrived and with it my epic novel, first in a planned series of three or four, died a slow quiet deserved death, subsumed as it was under naïve notions of psychology and the familiar pangs of adolescence, i.e. girls and awkward physical growth.

Once I got into college, I wrote more than I ever had before, churning out page after page in an endless procession of awesome. Granted, all of that writing was… I shudder… academic. In my early days as a freshman, I made ridiculous attempts to engender myself to my friends and classmates with humorous livejournal posts that mostly consisted of unoriginal conversations between tropes and stereotypes. Real clever stuff. But as college life went on, academia largely succeeded in its malicious efforts to stamp all desire to fiddle about in a word processor.

Then, in the next logical step a history and government major with a bachelor of arts from a liberal arts institution might take in his life, I applied for and entered business school. Do you know how you write in the business world? Like you’re talking to a retarded baby with ADD. Short, to the point, and with a minimum of flashiness. Please, keep your adjectives to a minimum. If I see an adverb, I will take your first-born child and feed it to Steve Jobs.

And that brings us to today, where I have already typed about three pages of words about the indelicate on-again, off-again relationship between myself and writing. Putting it bluntly, the two of us are no Ross and Rachel.

SO WHY NOW? AND FOR THAT MATTER, WHAT?

            In all honesty, writing can help me express what I feel about myself, others, media, and events in cathartic, humorous, occasionally dramatic ways I cannot otherwise explain in speech. It allows me a method to communicate thoughts and feelings I otherwise can’t or refuse to sum up in 140 characters or an easily scanned status update on Facebook.

            So that just leaves a few questions:

•  How do I plan to structure this blog? How will I write?
• However I damn well please on any given day.
• Ok, let’s put it another way. What constraints, if any, am I putting on myself in this blog?
• No one paragraph entries. Every entry should be the equivalent of a standard 4-5 paragraph essay. Furthermore, I want to post at least twice per week and keep myself in a steady rhythm. That said, most posts should be no longer (and many far shorter) than this. Another of my goals is to learn the hallowed skill of self-editing.
• Fine. So what am I going to write about?
• Well, what do I know? I know what I see, think, feel, experience, and believe.
• That’s pretty broad, smartass.
•  Thanks. More specifically, one day it might be a review of a TV episode or season, the next it may be an explanation of my religious beliefs, and then I might roll out an essay on the merits of alces alces.

Regardless, I think it’s time I took that advice. I’ll be writing what I know. For example, did you know it’s a lot easier to write this crap at eleven at night when I should really be gearing up for sleep? I think next time I’ll add some Red Stripe to the equation and see what happens. Until then…