Writing as a Practice for Recognizing What’s True

I was recently asked an interesting question by one of my patrons, Lhexa: "You mentioned on Twitter that you write in order to have fun and to learn truths. Would you elaborate? I find this thought intriguing, since I catch the occasional insight from Eight the book series." 

Here’s my response, focusing on the “truths” part of the question since that’s where the interest seems to be: 

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I’m a discovery writer, and the way I accomplish that is by setting the scene and then treating my characters as if they were real people. I do my best to observe them and their surrounds objectively, becoming their documentarian. 

The effects of this process are several:

First, it gives my subconscious the space it needs to generate ideas, details, and directions my conscious mind isn’t clever enough to develop on its own. And, relevant to Lhexa’s question, it also tends to create perspectives I wouldn’t normally consider. I’m able to put myself in my characters’ places, and dig into their issues. 

An easy example from Eight is how Ollie grapples with being a widower. His experience has allowed me to confront my own fears around mortality and the thought of losing someone I love. Fortunately, my wife and I are in good health, but because I love her dearly, I can’t help worrying about misfortune. Writing about Ollie’s feelings has provided me a safe way to examine my own. 

A step removed are the mindsets and cultural norms of the people of Diaksha. They appear to be necessary to survive on a fundamentally hostile world, but are they? Maybe yes, maybe no—I don’t have the answer, but I do find that exploring events through their points of view helpful for understanding our own world. 

Obviously, there are limits. It’s extremely hard, if not impossible, to fully understand another’s perspective if their life experiences are radically different. I make my best effort, though. 

So far, there’s nothing groundbreaking here—writers have done what I’ve described for centuries—and it's probably true for this next bit too: Writing also allows me to tap into the wisdom of my characters. By being creative and letting my characters be themselves, they surprise me with their actions and words. Their bravery, their debates, and even their mistakes are all grist for my mill. In a way, it’s like having an advisory board—one that communicates through modeling behaviors and simulating the consequences of decisions. 

Again, there are obvious limits—predictions and reality frequently don’t align—but writing creates more opportunities for me to be insightful, harnessing more of my mind to the task than normally available. 

Finally, one of the most valuable lessons that writing has taught me is the importance of stepping back and examining my own thoughts and preconceptions. Since I strive to be a neutral observer in my writing, it requires me to get out of the way of the story. I’ve worked to hone a sense for what’s real for my characters, which in turn has carried over into my non-writing life, i.e., learning how to recognize when my thoughts are clouding my judgment.  

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve mucked up a lot in my life, but I’ve also gotten better over the years at catching on quicker when it’s happening and correcting course. With discipline and practice, I’ve found writing to be a powerful tool for learning to filter for my own truths, to recognize when certain things ring true. 

If the above sounds a lot like mindfulness meditation, I do that too. The two practices are complementary. 

So, writing is a way for me to understand what’s real, both for my characters and for me, and I’m grateful for the lessons it’s taught me. If the above all sounds incredibly earnest, it’s because it is. But I also have fun too. I’m at the edge of my seat as I write the stories, anticipating like everyone else what’s going to happen next.