Bridging an Invisible Gap

Sometimes when I write, there’s an invisible divide. If I write something violent, it’s like I don’t realize what it is I’ve actually written. I don’t see the horror of it. And then I read or hear a true story about something bad happening to someone, and I’m sickened or moved by it, even though it may be on a smaller scale than the thing I wrote.

There’s an invisible split between my portrayal and reality. There’s some sort of gap or canyon. What I’ve written doesn’t seem real somehow.

I don’t know if that happens to you, but the more I write and listen to other authors speak, the more I realize that no writing dilemmas are new. I can bet that if you haven’t run into this problem yet, you will. :)

I’m still working through my own troubles with this, but some brief consideration of the issue has led me to a few thoughts.

I think that the divide comes from my own distance from what I’m writing. If I’m writing about deep grief or inexplicable peace—both things that I haven’t experienced too heavily—I tend to write the first things that come to mind. Sometimes I’m unwilling to slow down, think, and feel. I write what I’ve seen other people write, heard other people say, or seen people do in movies. My portrayal of reality is tainted by other peoples’ filters. I’m writing my view of their view, instead of my view of my view.

I instead need to step back and think deeply from my own perspective. I need to truly consider what it is that I’m writing. I need to deliberate how I would really feel and process a situation that my characters are in. Then I need to write.

The scary thing is, digging deep and then writing what I discover means becoming vulnerable. It means writing out my personal thoughts and feelings that haven’t already been read and accepted thousands of times by the masses. It means putting my feelings, reflections, and what I do know on a page. It means speaking freely. And lastly, it means submitting my work for critiques and being willing to learn from them.

It’s rather terrifying. Because, I’m afraid to imagine it wrong. I’m afraid to take license. I’m afraid to let people read my portrayal of what I think something is like.

But vulnerability, openness, and honesty are what are meaningful to readers. When the author takes the time to share his or herself, they’ve taken the courage to use what’s close to them to help others. They’ve taken the steps to be honest and to share what they’ve learned or observed. When they do that, it touches down on the parts that people hide and are afraid to share themselves. It lets the readers see that they don’t have to hide because there are other people out there that “get it,” that are just like them. It contacts the parts that hurt and the parts that speaks to the readers the most. Because to them, it’s real.

And so, vulnerability is the bridge.

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“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.” – Anais Nin

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