Category: Inspirations

Q&A Part 6: reader engagement and psychology

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Question: How do you hope readers will feel after finishing your book?

P.J. Moroney: I have to think about that. I guess there are the obvious things. I hope they enjoy it; I hope it makes them think a little, and it would be great if they thought it was the best thing they ever read. And I hope they tell their friends about it.

But really… I hope they understand it. The plot’s not too hard to follow, but I don’t mean that. I hope they understand the characters, their motivation and background. I hope they take in the psychological aspects – there are damaged people in this book, and their decisions and actions come out of that damage. We do as we are.

This is not a straight crime thriller with a linear plot and characters acting predictably. I tried to write something true to human behaviour and the traumas that bear on it. It just so happens it’s a human drama set within a crime thriller. The format places the characters in stress, which makes the story.

Ideally, I hope readers close the book and feel as if – for that moment anyway – that they have an enlarged understanding of human nature. We’re complex beings, and that makes for great literature when you do it right.

Question: You speak of ‘psychological aspects’. How did you approach them, and what was their genesis?

P.J. Moroney: I have no approach. I don’t begin a book thinking I will write about XYZ’s psychological aspects, though I will have themes in the back of my head. I’ll know what the story is about at a high level, but it’s not until I get into the guts of writing that I begin to get into the fine details. Often, it’s something I only realise in retrospect. It’s a cliche, but writing is a journey. I learn as much from the process as someone might do reading it.

Take Kurten. Like I said, he’s damaged. He comes from a famous and respected family, but he lives in disgrace and a degree of shame, thanks to his brother. He was an idealist once with grand ambitions, but now he lived in the shadows, solitary, bitter, and an outsider to the world he once belonged to. Then this case comes along, different from all the other shit he’s been doing, and that’s the story.

Now, there are clear themes there, as well as the possibility of redemption. But he has to live it. He had to go on that journey, and me, I had to write it. You do that, and you begin to inhabit their skin a little. You see through their eyes, feel as they do, and, with a bit of luck, the story brings that authenticity. Whatever I start off writing develops with the experience of writing it and shapes the words and perspective. Because you’re feeling as they do, you begin to understand the nuance of their experience. You grow into a more sophisticated understanding, and that feeds into your writing. I hope!

Question: Where do you think that psychological understanding comes from? How much of you is in it?

P.J. Moroney: Curiosity, mainly, and a wandering, provocative mind. I reckon it’s the same for most writers. I find a lot to be fascinated about, and much of it boils down to what people do and how they act. I’m a great observer, too. That’s pretty much a reflex, and I’m glad of it – I don’t think I’d be a writer or be interested in it if I wasn’t.

I don’t know the whys and hows of it, but I think I’ve always been pretty insightful regarding people. I seem to be able to read people. I’ve always been sensitive like that and had a natural understanding of what motivates people, what they’re thinking sometimes – and why – and ultimately, their triggers. It’s never what I tried to be; it just was. I had a bit of a party trick once where I would meet someone new and, within a few hours, explain back to them who they were. It was pretty shallow, but it would amaze many of them. Sometimes, they would be quite moved. Everyone likes to be understood.

I’m not an expert. I’m certainly not a psychologist. I read a bit, but most of it is experience. As I said, Kurten isn’t me, but I take my experiences and observations, and they naturally inform the characters and story. I draw upon what I know. To that extent, it’s personal.

Question: Isn’t that sort of insight shocking to other people?

P.J. Moroney: It’s certainly surprising, but I keep it under wraps 99% of the time. I’m sure it can be uncomfortable, and I have no desire to intrude upon a person’s privacy. And it’s not infallible anyway. It’s just something.

I will say it was useful when I worked in corporate. It helped me understand why people did what they did and sometimes how I could counter it.

Question: What has been the most surprising or interesting feedback from your readers?

P.J. Moroney: For a start, let me just say I welcome feedback. I’m always curious about how readers respond to my work and what they see in it. I’m happy to be surprised, mostly. If you’re reading this, feel free to send through your feedback.

Otherwise, I get a few questions about some characterisations, nothing too surprising. I got into a conversation with an older woman about the graphical nature of the sex scene. I felt a little embarrassed, actually, but she loved it. That surprised me.

I also get feedback about Melbourne from people living abroad. I think it’s a character in the story, and it seems to be well-appreciated.

Q&A part 3: the creative process

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Question: Could you describe your typical writing day?

P. J. Moroney: There isn’t one.

I used to read about the habits of great writers and wonder what would work for me. Some of them got up bright and early and wrote till lunchtime and took the rest of the day off. Others were the opposite. I reckon at least one wrote standing up. I think Henry James dictated his novels.

I haven’t had the luxury of a routine. I was a working man, so I wrote when I could, which was mostly on the weekend. I think, in general, I write more in the afternoon than in the morning. I need to get into the day first. I feel I write better in the winter than in the summer, but that’s probably my imagination. I’m pretty disciplined, considering.

Early days, I wrote everything long hand. Eventually, I began to write using my PC, and I still do that, but do a lot of writing on my iPad now, too, away from my desk. Occasionally, I’ll jot a thought or an idea or a scrap of dialogue in a notebook or one of the apps on my phone. When the words come harder, I try to change things up and might head out to the garden or a local cafe with a notebook and a pen.

Things might change when I get rich and famous.

Question: How do you approach the development of your characters?

P. J. Moroney: I don’t know the answer to that. I don’t think I have an approach. As for development, it’s all in my head.

Most of it’s in my head. I’m not one of those writers who use cue cards or who do a lot of research. Character development is pretty organic – they’re just there on the page, and they grow from that.

It’s not something I’ve ever thought about much, maybe because it’s always seemed so natural. I guess I have an idea of the major characters when I start something, but most of their growth is spontaneous, and the minor characters sprout into being along the way. Character informs action, but I like to let it flow.

There are times when I get stuck – when it doesn’t come so naturally. I expect that. People are complex, and even if these characters are my creation, I want them to be as authentic as possible – that is, think and act in ways that are true to the person. Sometimes, I will create characters that vary from my personal experience of life, and so I have to reach to make them authentic. It can be hard to get the nuance right and true to personality. Occasionally, I’ll ask someone better placed to review what I’ve written to get their perspective. Otherwise, in those cases, I spend a lot of time trying to inhabit their character to see and act through their eyes.

The rest of the time, it just happens. You get to know these guys so well that it becomes second nature as if you’re spirit writing for them. You put them in the room and let them perform. The starting point for me is understanding what they look like, and from that, everything flows – their tics and idiosyncrasies, how they talk, what they say, their attitude to life and their flaws, and all the rest of it.

Question: Do you ever base your characters on real people?

P. J. Moroney: Not really. Not completely, anyway.

Of course, what I know of human nature and people comes from interacting with characters every day of my life. It’s natural that you’ll pick up things and use them along the way, mostly without being aware of it. How someone walks, say, or the verbal tics someone might have, as well as character traits, and so on, but it’s all pretty anonymous.

Occasionally, I will take the look of someone and use them, extrapolating from that into character and history – a different person altogether.

Back in the day, when I got pissed off with someone, I would sometimes think I’ll fix them up someday by using them as a nasty character in one of my stories, but I’ve never done that. There is no character I’ve written that is even 50% of anyone I know. Most of them are organic creations but often around the seed of a trait or attitude or look. They’re born in my mind, but they come to life on the page. I think of them as real people once they’re written.

Q&A part 2: about the writing

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Question: How do your travel and career experiences influence your writing?

P. J. Moroney: All your life experiences contribute to your writing. Everything you see and do counts, and many of the things you encounter along the way will end up fueling the creative fire.

Work is a big part of life. We spend half our life there, pretty much. It plays a huge part, even if it’s not conscious. You pick up a lot of subliminal material just going to and from work every day for years, and in your office, and getting your coffee and going out for lunch, and so on. And that’s just the surface stuff. It goes deeper.

Not all writing, but much of it is about characters. Work in an office, and they surround you. You get to see up close the human dynamics at play, different personalities and characters, different ways of being. Then there’s the politics of place, what people do and how they deal with it. A lot of it’s pretty raw. You see people under pressure, you see them happy and sad, you see them stressed, and you see them at their most ambitious. It’s a rich stew of human stuff, and even if you don’t use it directly, it informs your thinking and philosophy and maybe even your behaviour.

As for travel, that’s different. It’s handy seeing how other people live and absorbing different cultures and all that, but the value of it is that it enlarges your soul if you do it right. I mean, if you treat it as more than just a photo opportunity and immerse yourself in the history and culture of a place, you learn a lot – not just about the people and place, but about yourself as well. You come away as a bigger person, I reckon. I don’t want to use the word enlightened, but there’s a bit of that.

When I travelled, I would soak it up. I’d try to get off the beaten path. Half the time, I’d travel rough. I opened myself up – I wanted to meet the locals and see how they lived. I had some unforgettable experiences.

I don’t know if I ever consciously used that for my writing, but there’s at least one story set abroad. More importantly, travel broadened me as a person. Everything you write comes from inside, and the richer you become with experience and knowledge and perspective, the richer your writing should become.

If only it were so easy!

Question: What themes do you find yourself drawn to in your storytelling?

P. J. Moroney: Themes are things you figure out in retrospect. You start writing with characters and plot in mind and maybe a general idea of what you want to say. In my experience, themes emerge in the writing. You don’t start with them in your head – I don’t anyway – but then you write something and read it back and see the thread of a theme emerging. And it makes sense to you because it’s yours – it’s come from inside.

I guess I became more conscious of it after the first few times, and editing and rewriting, I would look to sharpen them a little. In between times, I’d wonder about it, exploring what they meant – not just in general, but what they meant to me. And why.

To answer your question, I think there are a few themes – maybe the critics will teach me a few more. I think redemption was one of the earliest themes I identified. As themes go, I think it’s a good one. The opportunity to come good, to change the course of something, to redeem yourself – if only to yourself – is pretty rich. Why me? I couldn’t say, but it matches well with the sense of a journey, which I’m also drawn to.

Otherwise, I think flawed masculinity is one of my themes – don’t ask. Except to say, I think a lot of macho bullshit is bullshit. I think many men lose their way for whatever reason, and I look at that.

That aligns pretty well with personal identity, also. I see that in my writing. I’m curious about it. I mentioned earlier how I like the idea of a journey, and that’s because we’re all on a journey whether we know it or not. We know how it starts, we know roughly how it ends, and in between, we have to figure out how to live and who we are. This might sound a bit new-age, but I reckon the ultimate journey is finding our authentic self. That’s the jackpot, but easier said than done.

Question: Why is it so hard?

P. J. Moroney: There’s a lot of distractions these days. Everything gets delivered to us, on the TV, on our phone, at the supermarket. We get caught up in lifestyle, seductive as it is, and lost in that is direct experience. It’s easy to accept the cushy ride, and before you know it, it’s all over, and you haven’t begun to get at the real stuff.

Everything is a fucking marvel, and we take it for granted.

Question: What is the real stuff?

P. J. Moroney: Let’s not go there – except, I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to write. That’s the journey.

Question: How’s that going for you?

P.J. Moroney: Still going. I’m on the road, though.

Be yourself

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I was doing some housework the other day while listening to a Spotify playlist, which is pretty well the only way I can do household chores. I’m in a numb groove, the music plays and I sing along when it takes me, skipping songs every now or then, or pumping up the volume for the good ones, while like an automaton I clean and polish.

An Audioslave song comes on. It’s the late and great Chris Cornell with his smoky, resonant voice urging us to Be Yourself and I pause for a moment to increase the volume. Then back to work, I am, moving to the music, belting it out as I’m wiping down the kitchen bench, and it triggers something me, bang, like that.

I’d been struggling with my writing. I felt uninspired and everything I wrote seemed dull and lifeless. Words on a page. There are musical equivalents to that, but this song wasn’t one of them. It’s vibrant and Cornell’s voice gives it a sinuous grace, even as the bassline drives it along. It’s not the greatest song ever, but it’s vibrant and real – and that’s what you want in your writing, something vibrant and real. And I’m feeling it when the sentiment hits me: be yourself.

God knows that’s something I’ve tried to live by in my life and mostly succeeded, though not always to best effect. In theory, it’s what you want in your writing too – it’s your unique voice and perspective that’s going to sell it. But then writing is a more conscious business. To be yourself truly when you write is to go out on a limb, fearful that it may snap behind you. It’s much safer, much easier, to retreat into writerly habits.

On your bookshelves are your idols, great writers with a diverse range of voices and perspectives, every one of them different, but when pressed you go back to them. How would so-and-so write this, or what’s his name? It becomes an exercise in consciously grinding the prose out, bereft of inspiration. You write how you think you should write, rather write how it feels natural.

And that’s what I realised suddenly as I was wiping down the kitchen bench. I had become a technician churning out words that almost by definition must be dull and lifeless. I may as well have been writing a textbook. I wasn’t writing from what I felt. I was sitting there disengaged from the urge that had led me to write in the first place. The creativity that animated me had been submerged by a conscious mind too busy thinking. My instinct, my voice, had deserted me.

I went back to my work and just about dumped the last weeks’ worth of writing. I returned to the well, letting myself feel the story again and not simply think it. Why was this story important? Where did it come from? What did it mean? Where was I in it? I let it return to me slowly, let it fill me again until I knew it again like fate yet to be written.

There’s a spirit of irreverence in this. This is your story, why concern yourself with the rules imposed by others? Let it go. Let it be. Let it flow through you, let the words come, fresh and with a zip. Tidy it later if you need to (and you certainly will), but give it life by letting it go.

So, I got back inside of the story and let it drive me forward and all I did was use the words given me.

I think it’s very easy to lose your way when writing, particularly when something comes of it. I think that’s one reason some authors struggle so badly writing their second novel. They have become self-conscious with what they have achieved. They try to emulate it. They force it. With a bit of success, they feel as if they have now to measure up to a higher standard, but it was the standard they achieved without a conscious thought that matters.

Everyone has a different opinion and there’s probably no right way or wrong way, except what is right or wrong for you. My two cents worth is that stories come from inside, and it’s from inside you must write. You can’t search for stories outside you and hope for them to be real. You have to own them, have to live them in a way – as real as your own life – just in a different dimension.

I’ll have to remind myself of this, again and again, I’m sure: be yourself. That’s the good stuff.

Finding it

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What happens mostly when I’m working on something is that my mind goes ahead of me. While I’m working in the present, there’s a part of me looking towards what comes next. As I go about my daily business, riding the train, lying in a bath or preparing the night’s meal, that part is sorting through options and assessing the best way forward. It’s hardly conscious, though occasionally something will bob up in the middle of all this. And, generally, by the time I sit down again to work, whatever it is my mind has come up with will be there for me to draw upon.

It’s a comforting process. The blank page is never completely blank when there’s something ripe in your mind. It seems more valid than sitting down and telling myself to ‘be creative’. I think when you force it upon yourself, it comes out feeling forced on the page. I have faith in this subterranean process because – though I don’t understand it completely – it feels organic to what I’m doing. It is born, if that’s the word, from where I’m at, what’s come before, and where I want to get to. It knows better than I do.

There are times it doesn’t work like that. I had that situation yesterday. I’ve had a busy week and a lot to think about outside my writing. That part of my mind that might otherwise have been quietly working away at the story was occupied with more mundane demands. And so when I sat down to work, there was nothing to work with. I knew which way I wanted the story to go, but I didn’t have the words or the hooks to take me there.

I wrote something nonetheless. I knew the inspiration was missing, so I concentrated on pure narrative. A lot of writing is the things in between, so it wasn’t a wasted effort, and I knew it would come to me. And, always, it is better to write something than nothing.

I left it, and this time, part of my mind was on the job. I watched an interesting movie. I read from a book full of vivid prose and another that conjectured a clever storyline. I drank coffee, did housework, and walked the dog and throughout, I’m half aware that something is going on in the background, but I don’t push it. Let it bubble and seethe.

I came to the job today, and there it was. I didn’t have all the words, but I had the tenor of them. And there were fragments, images and snippets of prose that had come to the forefront. They meant little by themselves and little even in themselves – just small things, seemingly – but as I wrote, these were the fragments the story formed around. Somehow, they represented meaning. I knew them even if I couldn’t explain them.

I’m writing this now after having laid down about a thousand words this morning. I feel on a roll and will probably go with it again later this afternoon while it’s still full in me.

This, of course, is a very satisfying feeling, and I wanted to share it. This is what it feels like sometimes. Sometimes, it feels like a terrible chore. Sometimes, you doubt everything. But sometimes, it is like this, and all is forgiven.

And what were the fragments? I’ll share with you, though they’ll likely make no more sense to you than they will to me on any other day.

There was a phrase about the day remade.

And an image of the protagonist carefully laying his suit jacket on the back seat of his car.

And a snippet of dialogue that set me off on this pathway: “The colours were different, then.”

Stories from the night

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I wrote a story yesterday. It wasn’t something I’d planned to do. The story wasn’t even in my mind until the hours before. And even when it was in my mind, I thought I would jot down no more than a few notes for it. Once I started, though, I couldn’t stop.

This story is an interesting case study in the creative process. As I said, I had no conception of the story until the early hours. In fact, I woke with this in my head in the middle of the night. I lay in bed in the dark, turning it over in my head. I let it lead me on, my conscious mind fleshing out the bones the subconscious had provided me with. It was a fair story, I thought, but how often have I thought that and reconsidered it come daylight? Even more so, how many stories have been lost because, from sleep to wakefulness, they have been forgotten?

I woke, and I remembered this. As I prepared for work, it was rolling around in my mind. It seemed a fair story still. And so, when I found a moment, I began to write it down.

What I’ve written is far from the finished product, but it’s complete. I dashed it out, not thinking too much over it, not spending the time I might typically giving it a veneer of polish. It was all story, and every bit of it heartfelt.

It’s fascinating in this case as this story has an apparent reference to my own story. It’s entirely fictional but draws on my experiences and feelings. Most of those experiences I have pushed to one side. The emotions I rarely dwell on. That’s the crux of it, though – I think. My conscious self has moved on, but these things remain real and relevant in some deep part of myself.

I don’t know if this could be called a dream, but it has much in common with dreams as I understand them. I’m one of those people who believes that dreams can reveal hidden truths. There’s an honesty to our subconscious because it is not subject to the whims and ego of the conscious mind. It does away with the nonsense that dictates we must be this person or must do that. Dreams may exaggerate and transfigure, but often, they present an underlying reality we are unwilling or unable to face in our conscious self.

I know that sounds like amateur pop psychology. You can take or leave it, but it’s true to my experience and observation. Most dreams have obscure meanings, if they have any meaning at all, even when remembered. Others, like last night, present truth in the form of a parable. Isn’t that what writing is about? It is for me.

I have a history that I won’t go into here. The story that came out of the night directly touches upon that. I’ve written it out now, but as I did, I wondered what it meant for me. It felt like a candid message from my soul. You may deny it, Peter, but these are the things that are important to you – these are the things you crave.

Not all stories come like that. If you gave me ten minutes to come up with a brand new story, I could probably pluck something from the air. That’s the exception, though. I don’t sit down and search for stories – they come to me. It’s rare they arrive as last night’s story did, but it’s indicative of the process nonetheless. The story yesterday was seemingly conceived and written within a 24-hour block, but I can guarantee the essential truth of it has been in me much longer than that, evolving and shaping itself into a tale that finally came out yesterday.

The next story is in me now, bubbling in the background, though as I type this, I’m oblivious to it. When it’s ripe, it will come out. It’s what’s in the pot that’s important.

Magical writing

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There are many things in writing that appear pretty random but almost certainly aren’t. I’ve taken a stab at trying to figure out where stories come from, but I don’t really know. One day, they’re just there, though you can bet they’ve probably been a long time coming.

That’s how it was with the story I’m working on now. One day, I woke up, and it was in my head. It came pretty complete. I didn’t have all the details, but the frame was all there.

I remember I wandered into work pretty much like any other day. I got my coffee and mentioned it to my offsider. He looked at me, his head tilted, figuring out the story in his head as I told him of it. Then he nodded his head. “That’s a good story,” he said.

I was still working on my first book then, so I shoved the idea into the stories to write part of my brain.

Generally, when I have a novel like this in my head, I’ll have the beginning and the end and bits and pieces in between. I’ll know what the story is about and what I want to say, but there will be a lot of gaps in the storyline. It’s like planning a trip from Melbourne to Sydney and knowing you’ve got to go via Upper Kumbucta West or somesuch, but otherwise, you don’t know what route you’ll be taking until you’re in the car driving; what stops you’ll be making, and what’ll happen along the way.

I started writing this one about seven months ago. The first few chapters were clear, and I was happy to let them guide me the rest of the way. There’ve been times occasionally when I’ve felt uninspired and struggling. On one occasion, I had to return to a previous fork in the road and try the other way. Once or twice, I’ve felt so outside the story I felt like shoving it in the bottom drawer as well, come a better day. Naturally, there’ve been moments I’ve doubted the whole enterprise, including my skill as a writer. Who’re you kidding, Peter? You’re just a plodder, mate, get over it…

The thing is, with the sort of writing I do, while it’s important to have a good plot, it’s really about the ideas. I’m not motivated by seeing my name in lights or my book in every store. I’d love to make a fortune, but, yeah, nah, it’s the ideas I really want to explore. The story is the vehicle for that.

So it was with this story. I started with ideas – themes if you like – but they’re pretty general initially. While the plot was clear to me, many deeper, underlying themes only became evident as I began to write.

That’s the difference between being inside the story and outside it. Outside, you see the outline of what you figure is a cool idea, but once you get inside the story, it begins to take on its own life. You advance carefully, feeling your way. Many times, you retreat, knowing it’s not quite right. That’s when you sit in front of your screen looking blank while your mind goes a million miles an hour. You feel it, then. It’s heavy and complex, just like people are. While you search your mind – there’s a lot of sheer figuring things out – you can feel it in your gut, too, and your gut doesn’t lie.

You’re searching for truth, but the truth comes from the story, the text, and not anything you impose upon it. By now, the story has its own life. It’s your job to understand and to chart it. I know that sounds a bit of a toss, but that’s how it is. Quite often, I start off writing, thinking it’s about one thing before discovering there’s more to it than that, and my job is to listen well and get it right. There’s a different, more intimate truth you’re after – and there are multitudes in it.

Halfway through writing this, I had a small epiphany. In my spare time, I was reading of Homer, and specifically, of Achilles, the mighty Greek warrior. As I read, I began to discern reflections of my character’s journey in Achilles. It was a surprise, but it excited me too.

In the Iliad, Achilles is nearly invincible. By myth, he was held by the heel as an infant and dipped in a magical pool that made him immune to injury. As an adult, he becomes a proud, somewhat arrogant character, though capable of great complexity. Ultimately – beyond the pages of the Iliad, he will perish victim of his only flaw – an arrow to the heel left unprotected.

But what Achilles doesn’t perish? What if he lives on well after the sacking of Troy and the death of so many mighty? What if he passes into middle age, a warrior of legend but creaking and aching and grey now? His days of might have passed. He has defeated thousands in battle, but in middle age, he has settled into an existence where he wonders what it all means. Looking back, he knows it was real, but it feels distant now as if then he was a different man. It is this he must reconcile.

That’s what my story is, in a way, though inadvertent. It’s modernised, and instead of being a warrior, the protagonist is a once great sportsman.

I’m not far off finishing this novel, though there will likely be a couple of rewrites before I’m happy. The point is I started with an idea, which still holds true, but as I’ve gone along, I’ve found unexpected complexity in it. It’s like the act of writing reveals truths that were always there but hidden from the eye.

In itself, that’s not surprising. Like I say, to write is to go on a journey. What surprises me every time is that I learn from my own words. I sit back and read what I have written and wonder where it came from. There’s depth and knowledge and even a kind of wisdom, or so it appears – and I wonder if I am that man. It feels almost like a form of automatic writing, but I know the effort that has gone into producing it – there’s nothing automatic about it. But it is magical.

I don’t know what it’s like for other writers – I can only ever speak for myself. I know the satisfaction of having written something pretty good and look forward to the day when it is more generally acclaimed. That’s pretty conventional, I think. No one would be surprised at that. But there’s a deeply personal aspect that is just as satisfying, if not more so.

Writing is a form of self-discovery. You go into the depths of yourself and, from the darkness inside, drag up nuggets of truth you didn’t know existed. And while it looks good on the page, you can’t help but reflect on what it says about you. The meaning of us, I suspect, is more profound and complex than we understand. We get few opportunities to see more deeply within, but in writing, I catch a glimpse of that self inside me, both mysterious and somehow holy.

That’s as good as any reason to write that I can think of.

First words

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I’m trying to remember the day I sat down and began writing my first novel. You’d think it would be something you’d remember, like your first kiss or your first day in a real job. But then maybe it’s me. I can’t remember the first time I had sex, let alone my first kiss – as for work, well, that’s a mystery. Likewise, the day I sat before the screen and wrote the first words – I got zilch.

What I can remember is about twenty years ago when the idea for the storyline first popped into my head. I wasn’t looking for an idea, but there it was, and I knew it was good right from the start. There were times in the years after I made juvenile attempts to write the book, all for naught. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready until a day somewhere around four years ago when I decided to get serious and write it. And I did.

It took a long time to write that first book. I had an imagination, and I was okay with words, but putting them together as a novel was a different challenge altogether. Basically, I learned on the job, but I kept going. After I finished the third draft, I figured I had to let go of it and let people read it. Anyone who’s ever written seriously knows how spooky that is.

The good news was that it was well received. I got told I was a great writer, told that it was a fascinating story, told I should go out and get it published, I’d make a mint! Whoa, guys, I said modestly, secretly delighted. Just knowing it wasn’t a total disaster was reason for relief, but I wasn’t buying the superlatives. I knew it was good enough, and I knew it wasn’t great. The response gratified me, but I knew there was a lot of work still to be done. Maybe I was on the right path.

What was more surprising was that many of my readers associated the story with my recent experiences. I’d endured challenging times, and they thought they could read it in my words. Except – as I explained to them – I thought this up years ago, way before any idea that I would suffer such angst. On the surface, it seemed a strange coincidence.

It’s not as simple as that, though. I don’t remember how I thought up the plot in the first place, but figure it was informed by my experience of film noir. I love those old movies. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been more attracted to the flawed anti-hero than the pristine hero, who is generally dull.

I like the darkness of these tales. There’s a complexity to the protagonists. They’re not perfect, but they’re real. Often, they’re stubborn, unwilling to accept what’s been dished up to them, and more aware than everyone else. There’s definitely an existential appeal to these characters, which isn’t for everyone but very definitely was for me.

Oftentimes, these characters are doomed, and the story about their struggle to defy that fate. In a way, that was my story – about a man who sets out on a path not knowing where it would lead him but finding an unexpected opportunity for redemption along the way. And that was the story I thought up then.

When I finally wrote it, it was from today’s perspective, not twenty years ago. In the years between experience had shifted my perspective in general, but recent experience had directly informed the character development and the writing. The book I came to write was different from the book I would have written then, and though I couldn’t see it, there was truth in my friends’ belief that it was my story.

All that was about two years ago: I wrote another draft after their response (I’ve become much more efficient since), and it sits in the bottom drawer of my desk (actually my hard drive), waiting for its final revision. There, it’ll stay until I’m ready to go back to it. I think it’s pretty good, but it can be better. I can’t make it better until I get some distance from it. When you’re writing, you live the story. I imagine it’s a bit like method acting. You’re in the characters and the story and lose all ability to see from the outside.

That’s why I’ve put it aside. I wanted it to settle in me. I hoped I might even forget it a little. At the end of that time, I want to come at it and read it objectively. It’s been sitting in my bottom drawer for the last year and a bit, and I reckon there’s been enough distance for me to come at it clearly. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since, but I haven’t forced anything. I’ve let the thoughts come to me. Right now, that means when I sit down to write the final version, it will be pretty different from what’s there now. It will be more intimate and compact. I’ll simplify it. It will more closely align with the classic film noirs, a personal journey the protagonist must endure and ultimately surmount. That’s the idea.

What’s it about? People ask me, and generally, I tell them it’s a bit of a combo between True Detective and Heart of Darkness. But I can see a bit of Out of the Past in it, too.

I won’t get to it until I finish the book I’m writing now (more on this next post), maybe 2-3 months from now. I’ll be ready, though and looking forward to it.

Why this story?

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Why do you write what you write? I often wonder that. It’s not so much where the stories come from, more: why these stories? Why do I write stories of this kind and someone else something completely different?

It can only be how you’re made, how you think and see, how you interact with the world about you. Whatever you write today was likely born many years ago and shaped by experience in the time since. What you write is a product of who you are, and the person you are has been a long time in the making.

We share that in common all of us, whether we write or not. We’re subject to the forces of nature and random chance. Domestic imperatives dictate many of our choices, and capricious personality much of the rest. It’s different for everyone, but everyone has a perspective that evolves with time and experience, whether conscious or not. We take on a bias. We learn, or perhaps we don’t. We see through a subjective lens, and from that, we form attitude – and maybe even philosophy. We each become our own distinct character.

Not all of us write about it, though. It occurs to only very few. I can only speak for myself, but curiosity motivates me to write. I want to explore character. I want to travel back from effect to see the cause, complex and shrouded in mystery it so often is. I don’t pretend to understand, but the act of writing – for me – is a means towards understanding. I write, and often afterwards, I’m surprised at what I’ve written. I’ve written things with more insight than I was aware of as if the act of writing dragged it up from some hidden place in me.

But why the things I write? The answer to that is always personal, which the writing seeks to expose. Once more, there’s a distance between what I know and who my true self is. What I write comes from that true self, up from the depths, uninterpreted. The person who writes of it is like an observer trying to make sense of it. I’m like a witness looking in through a window, trying to untangle what my eyes can see.

It’s imagination that makes a story of that. Experience, that inner, actual being, presents a sense of something you seek to explore through the means of fiction. It’s understanding you seek, and you search for it in deconstructing it into the form of a story.

That’s the process, more or less, or at least the best I can figure it. Why these stories? I don’t know exactly, except that they come from inside me, and it’s my job as a writer to decode them.

To be clear, I do this for myself because I want to understand. It may be different for other writers, but for me, it’s personal. These are mysteries I want to engage in. I feel them in me every day, something rich and sometimes bewildering – but vibrant too, as if it has a pulse and is true. I’m grateful to be the man I am.

My kind of writing

PeterLeave a comment

Go to the local library, and there’s a book on every subject. For every book, there’s an author. Scan across the bookshelves, and you’ll find thousands of books, each one different from the one before. Each book has a mind behind it, a history and perspective, passion and ambition. There’s a story behind each story.

Though I read books of every type, my writing is contained within a narrow band – fiction, literary. I read books that educate me, books that stir and excite, books that explain and elucidate, books that divert and entrance, every kind of book, but the only kind of book I want to write are those informed by the so-called human condition.

I think when you start out writing – as a young person anyway, as I was – it comes from a love of reading. Books are a great club, and you feel privileged to be a member. You read all the time, taken away to different times and places, with different voices whispering in your ear and different perspectives to share. You live it so richly that there comes a time when you think, I want to do that too.

I think I remember that moment in my journey, though it’s so cliched I’m almost embarrassed to relate it – but here goes.

One day at my local library, among four or five books I’d borrow every few weeks was a copy of The Essential Hemingway. I was about fifteen. I’d heard of Hemingway, naturally, but something had put me off him till that point – the cliche, perhaps. I knew I’d have to read him someday, so I finally plucked him off the shelf.

You can guess what happened after that. Like thousands upon thousands of people – men mostly, and often teenagers like me – I found myself transfixed by the seemingly simple but affecting prose.

As an adolescent boy, this was a period when I was particularly vulnerable to the robust language and attitude of someone like Hemingway. I didn’t know anything yet. I didn’t know who I was. Hemingway gave no sense to that but a feeling that was purely visceral. I could feel it in my stomach. I wanted to be as clear and true as he expressed.

Unfortunately, like thousands upon thousands of people, primarily men, I spent a good few years trying to emulate Hemingway’s style until I figured there was only one Hemingway and besides, I had my own way of thinking and my own words.

There comes a time when writing for its own sake is insufficient. You get older, you live more, you travel, you fall in and out of love, you suffer and you glory, you battle and you strive, and so on, as we all have. And somewhere in that, you feel as if you have something you want to say. Life takes shape in you; there’s an attitude, even perhaps some ramshackle philosophy; in any case, you feel it burgeoning in you. You must get it out.

But what is it? That’s the question. Indeed, that’s the journey – for me, at least. What the fuck is it? Writing is an exploration of that, a hypothesis. You seek to transmute some vague sense into words in the shape of a story. It’s a tryout. Is this what I’m trying to say? Is this what I know? What is this thing? And you try and try again, knowing you’ll never get all the way there, but you learn plenty by trying.

I was re-reading some Thomas Mann recently. He’s an author very different from Hemingway. He’s an author of the mind. An author of great sensitivity and insight. He’s one of those writers who make you look up from the page to ponder something you’ve just read. There is a kind of wisdom in such writers and often a terrible poignancy.

That’s the writer I want to be, though perhaps I need to be that man first. As much as anything, I want to do this for myself – and really, I am my own audience. I write to understand. It’s probably therapeutic, but at least it gives me an insight into the workings of human psychology.

Life goes much deeper than the simple routines we adhere to without thought, and each person much more mysterious than they generally allow. That’s what I want to write about, but through the lens of my own experience. I want to feel and know it and not let it slip by me. I want to articulate and remember it. Writing – for me – is a form of conscious living.

I’ll write next about the two novels I’ve written or am writing to explain this better. Suffice to say that my experience has led me to the kind of writing I do, though that doesn’t explain it all.