Write what you know

Many people may know me as a chemist who works in the manufacturing industry (indeed, I have papers and patents with my name on them), but not many will realise I am a writer (a would-be novelist)in my spare time. Yes, the guilty secret is out! For a moment I want you to consider the title of this post. It is a commonly given piece of advice, but what does it really mean? You cannot take it at face value, otherwise all writing would be about everybody's boring jobs and mundane lives. Not many of us have careers like Clive Cussler! No - it means you should use your imagination, do your research, read, listen and observe. In other words, write what you can find out. But there is more to it than this. The foregoing will only get you so far, such as your fictional landscape, a few scene ideas and a wooden character or two. What you really need are the aspects that generate the important bits - character motivation and conflict. These bring the story to life, add layers and complexity, make the characters seem like real people, and make the reader keep turning the pages. A story is an emotional journey for the main character(s)and the writer alike. You have to be there, crying, laughing and loving right there with them. This is where we come to the fundamental truth behind the lie on the phrase 'write what you know.' Paradoxically, it really is within all of us, for who has not experienced the joy of (or longing for) love, the destructiveness of envy and jealousy, the loss and tragedy of death, the euphoria of achievement, the embittering effect of failure or rejection, loneliness - the list goes on. And it is these that drive our stories and characters. And I have found something else, too. You may find you gravitate towards certain topics or issues an find it hard to see why - the sort of thing Freud would have got excited about. For a long time I wondered why I wrote about young characters and why the main character in my first novel-in-progress was an only child. Then it hit me: I was at primary school with a girl called Julie who later died of a brain tumour. She was an only child. And a mere fourteen years old. Her face is burned on my mind and you, dear reader, are the first to know this - forty years on. Jack Orchison, 30 October 2013