#writing

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Fearless Writing

The audio version of this post appears below. Just click on “play”.

 

 

I’m a pussy when it comes to writing. I really am. And, it gets worse with age. I like raw…like, exposed nerve, mind-boggling, “can’t believe it went there” kind of raw. Human character boiled right down to its component parts – darkness, fear, topics too weird to think about, explosive revelations about otherwise seemingly normal people that shock and make you really have to think and wonder how you could have been so wrong about them.

 

I love to read raw and I like to write raw. But, I hold back and would bet, hell, I know other writers do the same thing. I truly believe that there is a very small percentage of writing out there that really represents what goes on in the mind of the writer. I read so many books where I think to myself – man, this author could have gone so much deeper and I bet they didn’t for the very same reason I don’t – fear.

 

If only everyone could be like Bukowski – fearless. Bukowski was completely unaffected by the notion that people would find him to be nothing but a drunk, womanizing, sadistic bum. He didn’t care what people thought at all. I need to do that, but I’m far too afraid. Too much of a pussy.

 

My fear stems from the notion that you are a piece of every character you create and there are some pieces I don’t want my readers to know about, or that just don’t exist, that were born from my imagination, but that I worry people will think I have direct experience with. Here’s a for instance: hookers. I’ve never engaged a prostitute before and certainly never will. However, I do have experience with hookers through my former career as a private investigator. I worry that if I write a largely accurate portrayal of a scene with a hooker and bring my readers into that scene, then people like – oh, I don’t know, my mom, the mother of my children and everyone who knows me would think that I have been a participant in the oldest profession. Stupid, just stupid, I know it is, but I don’t want to have to explain myself every time I write something racy, off color – raw.

 

And, that’s just sad. I always have a couple of novels brewing and throughout the process I send passages to my trusted advisors Rose and Holli, whom I’ve mentioned in this blog before. For this one supernatural novel, I have a very graphic scene that takes place in Hell and involves a priest, a little girl and the Devil. The writing is probably some of the best I have ever done. And, when I passed it on to Holli & Rose with a very small exception – I think it was word placement or something, they thought it should stay in and not be changed. Guess what? That paragraph will only see the light of day after either me or mom is safely six feet under.

 

My intention with that scene is to put the reader directly in front of it and instill terror, repulsion and abject hatred. It scores on all of those points. But, my fear is that someone will read it and be like “damn, that JB Vincent is one fucked and twisted individual that he can come up with shit like that.” I realize Stephen King never had that problem and that’s why he’s so rich and famous. I feel like I have to filter my imagination so that when people see me walking down the street they don’t quickly walk to the other side. Or, friends and family will think: “how come we didn’t realize he was so mentally ill.” Unlike Bukowski, I actually do want people to like me somewhat, or at least not be repulsed.

 

So, what’s the solution? I honestly have no idea. Like I said, it’s getting worse with age – there are my kids to think about. I can just see them going through my things after I take off for the unknown. “Wow. Daddy was sure one weird dude.” Perhaps I just need some yoga, more absinthe and vodka, or maybe I need to lose the confines of my conservative being and just go for it. I’m going to have to keep you posted on this one.

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One of the Keys to Writing – Location, Location, Location

Most recent incarnation of my work space

Most recent incarnation of my work space

I should never, ever bitch about my writing space; it’s off the hook. I have a private office in our house overlooking a beautiful lake that affords a decent (but not perfect) barrier between my terrorist children and my pain in the ass dogs. It’s warm, comfortable and should be very inspiring given the scenery and the fact quite a few literary greats have passed through this hamlet over the last century and a half. Sometimes when I look out my window I can see their spirits passing through and shaking their fingers at me “write, you lazy ass, write!” castigating my sorry butt as they fade off over the mountains.

Waking up to this every morning would be inspiring to most people.

Waking up to this every morning would be inspiring to most people. San Diego.

But, that ain’t the case and it hasn’t been in the last few houses we’ve been in where I have had the luxury of carving out a nice lair for myself in which to create prose for the ages. There was the rooftop apartment in San Diego that commanded an incredible view over Balboa Park, downtown San Diego and the big bay. After that it was the first place in Vermont tucked into the woods on a hill nestled in between a grove of mature oak trees so far from the road the silence was deafening. Then it was the home of a published and well-known author Joseph Olshan. Besides the remnants of a successful author’s aura wafting about in the air, that place had two awesome spots in which to wax and record my twisted thoughts. And, then it came around to this place, by far the best in the lot.

While these seemingly perfect spots provide a great place for the business of my writing: planning, editing, social media marketing, the writing of this blog, etc. The meat of my work gets done where it has always gotten done – the saloon. I’ve written in these here electronic pages before about the lubrication that gets my mind chugging along, but I haven’t mentioned where it all happens. Possibly, I haven’t brought it up because I don’t want to give off the wrong impression that I hang out in bars for days at a time on a literary bender. That’s not the case at all, in fact, I only need a couple of hours to produce about four thousand words – maybe not good ones every single time, but usually something that with a little work can prove to be the better fruits of my labor.

Where the magic actually happens.

Where the magic actually happens.

I find the din of a bar to be comforting. It’s just the right amount of noise, especially right around Happy Hour. And, as aforementioned, the comfort and effect of a martini or two helps relax the mind into that place where the cerebral jackhammers find the terrain more pliable and loose. The atmosphere strips away the thoughts that muddy up the creative process as well as the empirical distractions of home. There are no children interrupting the creation of the best sentence you’ve ever written with a shrill screech, or the begging for yet another treat. No dogs are barking at phantom burglars or to go out and sully the neighbor’s lawn. You just have strangers who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the geeky guy furiously tapping away at the keys of the Mac Air and occasionally tipping back the perennially present up glass at its loyal perch far enough away from the laptop so as to avert disaster. Of course, if you’re like me and have a regular watering hole, the staff learns your pattern and knows well enough when to interrupt and when to leave you the fuck alone. Not like home where as hard as one may strive to set up rules – they’re always broken. “Dad, I want milk.” “Dad, Mom yelled at me!” “Dad, when are you coming down!” “Jason, these fucking kids are driving me crazy!” Ruff! Ruff! Ruff! Let me out or I’ll pee on your loafers!

The point of this sprawling diatribe is that where you write is important and if you can choose the location you are way ahead of the game and on your way to creating your best work. I knew a guy once who wrote on a seesaw with loose-leaf paper and a Bic pen. Nora Roberts wrote at an abysmally small desk in her kitchen as she watched her small children (couldn’t imagine that). Wherever it is, your space is important. If I had started this career earlier in life when I could be out and away from home with wild abandon, I know I would have legions of books out there already. Doesn’t mean they would be good – but, they would be out there.