Getting Started “The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of ‘a workshop is that good writing is about telling the truth. We arc aspecies that needs and wants to understand who we are Sheep; lice do.not seem to share this longing, which is one reason they.wite s0,very little, But we-do.,We have so much ‘we want to-say and:figure out. Year after year my. students are bursting with stories totell, and they start writing projects with excitement and maybe even joy—finally their voices will be heard, and.they are going to get to devote themselves: to this one thing they've longed to do since childhood. But after few days at the desk, telling.the truth in am interesting way tums oitt to be about. as easy and, pleasurable.as bathing.» ceat.:Some lose faith, Their sense of self and story shatters and crumbles to the ground. Historically. they-show up for the first.day of the workshop looking like bright goofy duck- lings who will follow me anywhere, but by the time the secondclass rolls around, they look at me as if the engagement fs definitely of. " [= Se seems “I don’t even know where to start" one will wail Start with your childhood, I tell them. Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can. Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write forthe rest of hie oF her life. Maybe your childhood was grim and horrible, but grim and horrible is Okay if is well done. Don't worry about doing it wel yet, though. Just start getting it down, Now, the amount of material may be so overwhelming that it can make your brain freeze. When ! had been writing food reviews for a numberof years, there were so many restaurants and individual dishes in my brainpan that wien people asked for a recommendation, | couldn't think ofa single restaurant where Pa ever actually eaten. But if the person could narrow it dovn to, say, Indian, 1 might remember onévlavsh Indian palace, where my date had asked the waiter forthe Rudyard Kipling-sampler and later for the holy-cow tartare: Then Jhumber of memories would come to mind; of other datesind other Indian restaurants So you might start by writing down every:single thing you can remember from your fist few years in school, Start with kindergarten, Try to get the words and.memories down as they occur to you. Don't worry if what you write is no good, because no one is going to see it. Move on to fist grade; to second, to-third. Who were your teachers, your-classmates? ‘What did you wear? Who-and what were you jeilous off Now. branch out.alttle. Did your family take vacations during those years? Get these down on paper. Do you remember how much * more presentable everybody else's family looked? Do you re- ‘member how when you'd be floating around in an inner tube con a ver, your dwn family would have lost the litle cap that serows over the airflow valve, so every time you got in and out of the inner tube, you'd geratch new welts in your thighs? ‘And how other families never lost the caps? If this doesn't pan out, or if it does but you finish mining this particular vein, se if focusing on holidays and big events helps you recollect your life as it was. Write down everything you can remember about every birthday or Christmas or Seder cor Easter or whatever, every relative who was there. Write down all the stuff you swore you'd never tell another soul What-can’ you-reeall about. your birthday parties—the dis- asters the days of grace, your relatives” faces lit up by birthday candles? Seratch around for details: what people ate-listened to; wore—those terrible-petaled: swim-caps, the men's awful trunks; the cocktail dress your voluptuous aunt wwore:that was so-linky she-practically needed the jaws of Life to get-out of it. Write about the:women’s- curlers with the bristles inside, the-gartes jour father and-uncles used to hold up their dress socks; yeur grandfathers’ hats; your cousins" perféct Brownie uniforms,:and how yoursown looked like itchad just been hatched.;Describe the trench cuits aid stoles and cor coats, what they revealed andowhat-they covered up. See if you can remember whit you wére given that Christmas when you were tenyand how it made you feel inside, Write down what the7 ‘grown-ups said and did after they'd had a couple ‘of dozen drinks, especially that one Fourth of July when your father ‘made Fish House punch and the adults practically had to crawl {fom room:to room. Remember that you own what happened to you. If your childhood was less than ideal, you may have been raised think- ing that if you told the truth about what really went on in your family, a long bony white finger would emerge from a cloud and point at you, while a chilling voice thundered, “We told you not to tell” But that was then, Just put down on paper everything you can remember now about your parents and siblings and relatives and neighbors, and we will:desl with 1 ater on. “But how?" my students ask. “How do you actually:do it?” You sit down, I say. You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how:-you train your uncon- scious to kick in for you creatively’ So you sit down aty sty, nine every morning, or ten every night. You put a piece: of Paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare St it-for an“hour or so. You begin rocking, just a litle at first, and then like:a hhuge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and: over atthe clock, yawn, and stare atthe paper again. Then, with your fine gers poised on the keyboard, you squintiat-an image tht is forming in your mind—a scene, a‘locale, a character, what- ever—and you try to quiet your mind: so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They: are the voices: of anxiety, judgment, doom, ‘guilt. Also, severe hypochondria. There may be a Nurse Ratched— like listing of things that must be done ‘ight this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that ‘must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed. But you hold an imaginary gun to your head and make yourself stay. at the desk, There is a vague pain at the base of your neck. It crosses your mind that you have méningitis. Then the phone rings and you look up.at the ceiling with fury, summon exery ounce of noblesse oblige, and answer the call politely swith maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller‘asks if.you're working, and you say yeah, because you are: ‘Yet somehow in the face of all this, you clear.a space for the writing voice, hacking: away at.the-others with machetes, and youbegin:to compose sentences. You begin:tostring words togetherslike beads to-tella stot? You are desperate-to com- rmunicate, toiedify or entertain; to preserve moments of grace ‘roy ortranscendencé, to niake-réal or imagined events-come alive,But-jou-cannot will»this:to-happen::It is a-matter of persistence and.faith and-hard avork.-Sé.you-might' as. well just powahead and get:started.s: + wish 'Had-a secret Leould‘let you in on, some formula my {father passed:on:to mein a:whisper:just beftre he died, some code'word:that has ‘enabled.me to sit at-my desk and land flights of creative inspiration ike an alr-tralic controller. But 1 don’t, All] know is that'the-process is pretty much the same’ WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW © ‘some writers tell you, “Write what you know!” Others tell you that half the great literature of the world would be lost if people wrote only “what they, knew.” So it’s important to figure out what write what you know can mean. ‘Taken most narrowly, it would mean write only about what you have actually experienced. That does sound a bit limiting. Many writers are fundamentally—some- times embarrassingly—autobiographical. That might work for them, but it doesn’t seem appropriate as a gen- eral rule for all fiction. ‘A broader application of write what you know recog- nizes that the idea of you is complex in itself. You, "in ‘61 cre ‘MAKING’ SHAPELY ‘FICTION theory at least, know yourself, But your self is made up of many selves—the girl who wanted an older brother, the high school misfit, the college student who dressed in black and wanted to foin the French club, the woman who fantasizes about what she'd do with her own televi- sion talk ‘show. You are, in part, not only persons you once were, but also persons you have tried to be, persons you have avoided being, and persons you fear you might be. Alll these are people you know. Asstill broader notion of write what you know would recognize that you k#ow in many ways. In fiction you can be your younger sister, your college roommate, your nervous boss, or your unhappy neighbor. Fiction based not on your own’ experience, but on experience you've observed is also writing about what you know. You know by empathy. You know by living. So what kind of advice is write what you know any- way? First, it’s helpful to state the principle in reverse. “Don’t write what you don’t know.” If you know noth- ing about Zaire, the federal penitentiary system, schizo phrenia, or the French ‘Revolution, you're unlikely to write about these things successfully. But then the situa- tion gets more complicated. We do‘have to acknowledge research as a legitimate way of knowing, or much fiction would be impossible. Writers immerse themselves in books on medical reme- dies,: legal procedures, and haberdashery history for background information. They talk to plumbers, police ~ officers, and podiattiéts to gather authentic details. ‘We have:to recognize imagination as a form of knowl- edge“Or our speculative-fiction would vanish. Writers in-