Writing What You Don't Know

Photo by Liberty Bell

Daniel Schwabauer (Mr. S.), whom I mentioned in last week’s post, advises his students to “write what you know.” He also specializes in training his students to write adventure novels.

I’ve read several of my fellow students’ books including one about a Civil War nurse, a captain of a pirate ship, and one imaginative and elaborated story based on the true story of the WWII feline-hero, Simon the Able Seacat. The last story was written from the point-of-view of the cat.

I don’t think my friend Abbie knew what it was like to be a nurse. I don’t think Martha knew what it was like to be a ship captain. And I guarantee you the last author didn’t know what it was like to be a cat on a British sloop. I wrote a Vietnam War novel about an infantryman, and I’ve never experienced the life of a soldier.

So, when Mr. S. told us to “write what you know,” I don’t think he meant, “write the things in your everyday life.” Because, for most of us, that would be mundane. No one would want to read about Kyle and his daily routine of waking up, brushing his teeth, eating cereal, etc.

In fact, the optional starter synopses Mr. S. gives in his curriculum are historical fiction. His classes are directed to high-schoolers, not war veterans or survival experts. I think Mr. S. meant that we are to write the people, values, and the general experiences we know. We are to write things near our mental maturity, things close to what we understand. The time period can most always be researched.

So, how do you write the things you don’t know? How do you write action, terror, and emotions you’ve never felt?

“A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others.” – William Faulkner

Imagination

“Writers don’t write from experience, although many are hesitant to admit that they don’t…If you wrote from experience, you’d get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.” – Nikki Giovanni

It is impossible for every writer to know everything about every person and every story. And yet authors still manage to build convincing books as if they were experts the day they began their story.

When you write, slow down to take the time to imagine what’s happening. Put yourself in their mindset and think about how you would feel in the situation. Yes, your characters are their own people and should react in their own way, but if you make yourself the character (not make the character you—there is a difference), you can more easily decide how they should act.

Again, slow down. Realize that some things will take research. Be aware that the thirteen-year-old sold into a cruel assassin school (©Liberty Bell) will suffer mental trauma and PTSD. For the first couple of drafts, imagine yourself in his place and write as best as you can as you get your story world and characters lined out. Then go back and do the research on child-trauma and its implications; your findings may guide your story in a different direction than you planned.

The Power of the General Experience

Magnification is the key. Keep your eyes open for everyday experiences that you can amplify to fit your story’s situation.

I realize that what I write next might be extremely offensive to some people. Please understand that I’m not diminishing the pain of the situations you may have been through. And I’m not comparing the death of your loved one to an animal. I realize the loss is vastly different, but there are similarities to be drawn from. Let me explain.

My heart has hurt deeply with friends, acquaintances, and even strangers over their losses, but I’ve never experienced the death of someone close to me.

When I wrote my Vietnam War novel and came to the deaths of the Main Character’s brother, Sam, and later the MC’s best friend, Howard, I couldn’t draw on a direct experience. The most similar event I could pull from was the death of a pet, a few months prior to writing Sam and Howard’s deaths.

 

Though he was my sister’s Golden Retriever, Pooch (silly name for a dog, yes), was like a family dog from puppy to adulthood. He even lived back and forth between my sister’s house and mine the year after she married. 

One Monday morning when he was 10 ½ years, he wouldn’t get up, and with my dad’s help, my sister picked him up, loaded him into the car, and took him to the veterinarian. An x-ray showed his body full of cancer and his poor stomach filled with blood. We never knew he was sick. My sister decided to have him euthanized that day. Before the vet put him down, my family visited the office to tell Pooch goodbye.

We crammed into the tiny examining room where he laid on the floor, his head resting in my sister’s lap. Gray fur colored his nose and around his pitiful eyes; for the first time, he looked old. Pooch had always kept buckets of energy, enjoyed welcoming guests with gusto, and had a bizarre delight for swallowing whole socks, then puking them up three days later.

I went through a dorky period when I wanted to teach him to retrieve from a lake, on command, by referee-whistle. Of course, Pooch paid no attention to me and instead bounded up to picnickers around the lake, trying to become their best friend while they yelled at me, “Control your dog!”

He loved licking the remains from empty peanut butter and ice cream containers, knew a myriad of tricks (many of which I had taught him), and liked when you held his paw.

When I knew that it was my last time seeing him, I realized he was just a dog. But I wanted him to know how much I loved him. Even though there were times that he was an idiot and I got angry, I loved him. I wanted him to know he was a good boy. In my mind, now that he was dying, he was the world’s best dog. Yeah, he’d been naughty at times, but in those last moments, he was perfect to me. I wanted him to understand.

My dad and brother-in-law left the room and went to McDonalds across the parking lot to buy Pooch an ice cream cone. When he saw the treat, he perked up and wolfed it down. It didn’t seem like he could really be sick. It didn’t seem like it could be time to let him go. How could it be? How could it get to the point where my sister would tell the vet, “I’m ready”?

I wasn’t.

But the time came. We all took turns saying goodbye. I knelt in front of him, took his face in both of my hands, and kissed the top of his head.

“I love you,” I said, stroking his ears. “You’re a good boy, Pooch.” Tears choked my throat and blurred my eyes. “I love you.”

And then I left.

***

In my medieval fantasy, my MC dealt with anxiety, especially when he found himself around fire. Later that year, for the first time in my life, I began to experience anxiety in certain areas.

***

Recently, my state survived a terrifying, 7.0 earthquake and over a month of substantial aftershocks. Though my family experienced little damage, many parts of the state suffered more, including split apart roads, rockslides onto highways, and damaged bridges. People lost electricity, dishes flew from cabinets and shattered, the quake knocked some people to the ground, ceiling tiles fell, light fixtures busted, and shelves dumped their contents. Structures sank, walls cracked, and for some it destroyed nearly everything in their home. By God’s grace, not one fatality occurred.

Putting It in Fiction

When I wrote about Sam dying, I mentioned that the MC couldn’t remember anything wrong that Sam had done. He seemed like a perfect person, even though Sam was far from flawless. When Howard was dying on the battlefield, the MC wanted desperately for him to know how much their friendship had meant. He wanted Howard to know how much he was loved. He wanted Howard to understand.

I took my experience with Pooch and gave it to my MC. I magnified the pain of losing Pooch and applied it to losing Sam and Howard.

With the anxiety portions, I could better know how to write the feelings of my MC.

And with the earthquake, I can take those feelings of perfect terror and no control and apply them to a Great War soldier, hunkered down in a bunker during a shelling. I can take the tension of continually being ready for another aftershock and build it into constant waiting for an enemy attack.

Observation

When I wrote a later draft of the Vietnam War novel, I took my observations from a friend of my parents. He had mentioned that when he lost his wife, people’s words didn’t help him. But their presence did.

I integrated that into my novel, not to exploit the man, but to build a realism that people who had lost loved ones could relate to.

Be encouraged as you write the hard things that you may not know much about. Imagine. Magnify and modify your personal experiences. Observe. And when needed, do the research.

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“I am convinced that anyone can be a great writer…if he can only…tell the naked truth about himself and other people.” – Clive Barnes

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