Them Writers With Their Crazy Lives...

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As I was writing my series on the Bronte sisters for @adsactly, I came across a really fascinating idea (especially for a writer, like myself) and I thought I’d share it with you, guys.
I was reading an article about the Brontes and why we’re still fascinated with them all these years later and they offered a really interesting quote:

“One of the things I most love about the Brontës is that they give the lie to the notion that to be a great writer you have to have epic life experiences – that whole Ernest Hemingway, Jack London thing, Emily never left her home, but she wrote Wuthering Heights. To be a great writer you just have to be a great observer.”
-Catherine Lowell, author of The Madwoman Upstairs src

Now, this goes directly against the largely held belief that writers must be these wild party animals, that they should live a crazy life and consume an excess of alcohol and drugs in order to write honestly and truthfully about the world around. Indeed, how can someone who’s never gone anywhere but the library write an honest story about an orgy?
I’m exaggerating here, but you get the point.

Well, they can, according to Lowell. Because that orgy-story would, in essence, be a story about people. Not about the actual going-ons in an orgy. Anyway, but let’s delve further into the subject, shall we?

The argument that a writer should amass crazy experiences in order to write about them falls through immediately. I mean, what about people who wrote about Jack the Ripper? What if I wanted to write a book in the perspective of Alexander the Great?
Then, I’d be pretty much lost, wouldn’t I? Because there’s no way I can actually live like Alexander or even know (from experience) what that would be like. It’s the same with Jack the Ripper. I’m not going to go out and start murdering girls, am I? Although that seems to be the only way to gather worthwhile experience and knowledge on the life of a serial killer.

_{Appealing, isn't it? The life. And besides, just look at those eyes...damn. src}

So, from the get-go, there are some areas that are already pretty grey, that rely on something other than personal experience. And the reason that these areas work in books is that most stories are about people, they transcend profession or sexual orientation and many other things.
Most stories are about what it means to be alive, about the fundamental emotions that make us human and connect us all, in the end. That’s how writers manage to put out great stories about serial killers, military leaders, pilots, highwaymen, etc.

Sure, there is this whole genre of books that focus precisely on excess. There are many 20th century writers who focused on drug addiction, alcohol and all that culture. And in their case, you definitely need to have experienced what you’re writing. Think about people like Jack Kerouac or Hunter S. Thompson. It’s obvious from their writing they knew what they were talking about, isn’t it?

So, it’s a to-and-fro sort of thing, there are arguments for both sides. There are the Hemingways, but then, there are the Emily Brontes of the writing world. And they were both good writers, they all constructed these excellent stories with compelling characters.

I love Hemingway. And I admit some of it is because of this public fascination with the guy. Life exciting as fuck, short, concise sentences, and he seemed to be this straight-forward, manly man, you know? He’s exciting and so is his writing. He’s the kind of writer you want to like.

But so is Emily Bronte. Personally, I can’t get over the character of Heathcliff. The insane plot of Wuthering Heights is one of the best I’ve ever read (despite the fact I didn’t really like most of the characters). To build someone so complex, so entertaining and such a deep, human plot. There are a lot of things not said in Wuthering Heights and that’s because they don’t need to be said. So there again, it’s also great writing.

So then, what’s the answer? Is it enough to spend all day every day locked in a room writing? Or do you have to travel the world swigging a bottle of scotch in order to become a phenomenal writer?

And the answer, in my opinion, is neither. Neither of these things will make you a great writer. At least, not on their own. You can ride tigers and do drugs with Escobar, but that doesn’t, in itself, give you the talent (both in constructing a story and in observing others’ behavior) you need in order to be a good writer.

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I think this largely-accepted misconception that writers need to be wild in order to write well stems from the entertainment industry. And all those crazy kids writing in the 20th century (because that was a pretty wild century and a lot of its central figures are now much admired – look at Kerouac or William S. Burroughs). Look at Charles Bukowski, for Heaven’s sake!
And speaking of Bukowski, look at all these movies and TV shows, such as the very-popular Californication (whose main character is largely based on Bukowski), a show that is notorious for the copious amounts of sex, alcohol, drugs and all sorts of debauchery.

But in all the seven seasons of that show, you don’t really see Hank Moody getting down and actually writing, do you? He spends most of his time indulging in parties, yet writes very little for a writer. I think you can count the scenes where he’s writing on one hand. In seven seasons, that’s not a lot.
And you know why? Because nobody wants to see a show about a guy – hot or not – who sits at his desk for three quarters of the show and writes. Stares. Scratches his balls. Writes. Deletes a bit. Writes something else. Goes off to get more coffee.

Boring, see what I mean?

That’s why we’re all very attracted by this image of the writer as a party animal. Because the reality would be pretty damn boring. Sure, some made it by scribbling in a battered notebook on a cross-country journey fueled by cocaine. But they’re quite a few. Most writers are really rather dull, if you think about it.

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And it’s okay. Writing doesn’t mean that you went down to the store and bought milk. Writing means that you got caught up in a police chase on your way to the store and met a shady pimp with a golden heart who became your best friend in the end.

It’s fiction, remember?

Cheers for reading,