Life, Love, Truth – and Distance

I often read scripts by young writers that are, ironically enough, coming-of-age stories. These scripts are passionate, epic and generally involve an overbearing father who wishes the main character would go into the family business. The main character usually victoriously tells dad off in the end and goes his merry way, barefoot and with his banjo, free at last to truly be himself. Such sturm und drang from a writer just over the legal drinking age. And as I read such material, I really do feel the intensity of feeling which wrought the work; it’s just that it’s not generally matched by a skill set or perspective to pull it off. Younger writers tend, very often, to write a thinly veiled version of their own experiences because these experiences have been recent and painful. Just as often, inexperienced writers write thinly veiled fantasy versions of their lives in which their ex-girlfriend bears a striking resemblance to Angelina Jolie and their boss at the Dairy Freeze is shredded by the razor sharp claws of the monster living in the dumpster.

Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against young or inexperienced writers. I love the new, fresh voices and perspectives that they contribute to the world. But writers, like fine wine, need to age just a little before they take on the personal stuff. A synergy of life experience and the cultivation of voice imbues a writer with the ability to look back with clarity and write something that is personal – yet universal. It’s not about me, it’s about we.

Some time ago, I went through a bad break up. I had ever so many feelings about it, most of them homicidal, and nowhere to put them. So I decided to write a bleakly black comedy about the experience. Two weeks after the breakup, my writing group stared at me kindly, the way you would a doubled-over old lady in a parking lot, as I pitched them my idea. It was all over the map, it was ridiculous and it was most certainly not a movie. Suddenly I became aware of the embarrassed silence in the room. And it is a testament to the integrity of my writing group that a volunteer stepped forward and softly said: I think it’s too soon.

Naturally writers must be passionate about their subject. But our emotions need to be indirect; embedded in theme or character, not overt. Studio readers can attest to the painful experience of reading you-had-to-be-there comedy. No matter the genre or really, the venue, fiction is universally resonant precisely because it is specific and non-specific at the same time.

My advice to writers young and old is that if you feel a strong urge to write about your life – don’t. Resist the temptation. Let it sit for a few months or even years. Trust me, when it is time to tell that story, it will emerge from you with an elegance, hilarity, poignancy or razor-sharp anger which takes a story into the realm of a STORY. Take the time to allow the experience which shaped you to become an experience that will shape us – collectively.

If you enjoyed this post, follow me on Twitter or subscribe via RSS.