On the Craft: Know your why...

A writer must know the origin of their propulsion

What are we creatives doing here? I often ponder this question, as I examine the balance between writing/creating for ourselves and for our audience.

Quentin Tarantino and Taylor Sheridan are exceptional creators because they do it their way, unapologetically, and make movies and TV shows they themselves want to watch. I’m sure Stephen King is the same way. All of their work glows with authenticity.

On the other hand, many artists create to market. What does that mean? You could almost think of these makers as being led by their left brains or by their accountants. They study trends, such as the soaring trajectory of romantasy, and write exactly what is popular at the moment, even if they aren’t feeling such a calling in their heart. Film producers, directors, and actors are especially guilty of following the money right now, as illustrated by the abundance of superhero flicks. Not that all of them are selling out. I’m sure they’re having fun on set, and they’re certainly providing entertainment to a large audience, like my son, who can’t get enough Marvel and DC.

No judgment here. Jon Favreau and Emily Blunt, if you’re reading this, I love you. Big action movies are making all the dough while arthouse films, sadly, are dying slow deaths in theaters. If you want to tell stories for a living, you’ll have better luck lasting in your profession if you cater to demand. And maybe your destiny is to make lucrative art that will allow you to do good deeds with your cash. As the breadwinner of my family, I agree that we must let our accountant play a part. Otherwise, we’ll have to reset and find a new career. I can’t imagine what else I’d do! Tennis coach? Homicide detective? Your next Spiderman?

I myself am compromising. I likely won’t surprise my audience with a dystopian-zombie novel next year, despite my desperate urge to write one. I may down the line, but it will be under a pen name to avoid jarring my upmarket fiction readers. On a subtler level, I’m aware my books with a female protagonist appeal more to my audience, so why wouldn’t I at least consider that fact when I’m deciding who will be the hero of my next story? I sometimes rein in my potty mouth (I didn’t on my forthcoming one—my apologies, Dad!), knowing that one too many F-words will turn some readers away. And I’m careful not to take sides with regard to religion or politics. (That’s not only because I don’t want to alienate people; I strongly adhere to an “all are welcome here” policy with my art.)

So I’m indeed playing the game, but I draw a big line when it comes to how much I’m willing to sacrifice. You won’t ever hear me say, “Yeah, I’m not making what I want, but I’m laughing all the way to the bank.” Actually, I kind of wish I could take on that attitude, but I’m more the mindset that I will create what resonates with all of me and hopefully others will get it. There are far easier ways to make a buck than to force myself to write books that don’t spew from the depths of my essence. Ugh, it’s so freaking hard to be an artist, isn’t it?

This is where we need to revisit what put us in the creative chair in the first place. I’m convinced we can’t only create for us if we’re to achieve our best. I suspect even Tarantino and Sheridan and King have their audience in mind and enjoy sharing their gift. You know King loves scaring the shit out of us. Yes, I cherish the act of writing, of falling into flow every day, and coming up for air at the end to marvel at this creation that I’ve made. It’s an addictive cycle that I repeat yearly. But I also love impacting readers.

No, I’m not an ER nurse or a teacher. The world doesn’t necessarily need me. I’m just little ol’ me, little ol’ Boo Walker, an artist who wants to share his work with the world.

Let’s ponder the idea of serving others as a life’s purpose and how it applies to novelists (and other artists). Service is a thread that runs through nearly every spiritual tradition—religious or not—and at its core is love. I’m far from perfect, but when I’m seeing clearly, love is what drives me, what guides me.

I’m not saving lives or standing in front of a chalkboard gifting knowledge to the youth of the world in hopes of making it a better place. I’m merely giving readers a chance to leap into an imaginary world, but it’s still an offering. It’s me narrowing in on my potential and sharing my light into the world.

Offering an escape to fellow humans is a beautiful reason to get out of bed, especially these days. How nice it is that we can give people a safe place to go. Well, sort of. There may be murder, but even in my darkest stories, you’ll find light.

I push it one step further with my work. My specific charge is to give people an escape while also slipping in an injection of love, hope, and optimism. When I’m taking my last breaths or when I lie down in my chamber to be cryogenically frozen, I would like to look back and know that I made life a little easier for a few people. That’s all little ol’ me can ask for. I firmly believe this is my calling. Sorry, Ma, it’s not looking like I’ll be the one to defeat cancer.

Back to striking the balance between writing for me and writing for my audience—and I’m strictly speaking for me now… (You have to find your balance, your truth.)

I must write for me. I must create art that vibrates on my frequency, that screams “BOO WALKER!” As Oscar Wilde said, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” I must sit down and put words on the page without worrying about the reception it will receive a year later. I have to forget that my parents will read my book and share it with their friends, that if my book flops, my nuclear family might have to tighten our purse strings. To fulfill my purpose, I need to first let the outside world go, then climb into my literary drilling rig, bore a hole into the subsurface of my soul, and find the holy oil that will populate my sentences. That’s it!

But…

Since my mission involves my reader, I have to consider them while I’m drilling.

Just as Pink Floyd offered a dazzling light show, I like to sculpt my story in a way to enhance the experience for my reader. Though I could talk about the details of the acoustic guitar in my hero’s hands for four pages, the reader doesn’t want to endure that. There are times when I delete sections that I adored writing and equally enjoy reading, but I know they won’t hit my readers the same way. Here comes my delete button. Kill those darlings, baby!

More importantly, I want to be a puppeteer for my reader’s emotions. As I’m writing, and even more often when I’m editing later drafts, I love to consider what they are feeling. Have I created tension? Am I holding it too long? Have I pushed her to tears or do I need to push harder? Are they laughing? Is the joke too subtle, too obvious? Is the sentence too long? Despite it working technically, will it trip him up and pull him out of the story? Am I ending my chapter in a way that will make them want to push forward? Will they close the book with a bit more hope in their heart? Perhaps a desire to be a better person? Will they find pieces of my characters in themselves? Will they feel more connected to the world?

Abraham Lincoln always delivered speeches by considering his audience. He understood what the specific group in front of him wanted or needed to hear. And he knew how to penetrate their ribcage and get at their heart. How fun is it to write in such a way!

As we sculpt our mini-masterpieces, we must consider what a reader will take away from our words, how the roller coaster of emotions we put them through will affect them. If done correctly, perhaps we can mine into what hits us all, those deeply rooted pressure points that give rise to our war to be better humans.

That’s the dance, amigos.

What’s your why? You certainly don’t need mine, but I can’t help but think most artists want to heal themselves while also making the world a better place. Isn’t our purpose on this earth to shine our light a little brighter each day, to serve those around us? How are you going to do that?

There’s a certain power you can tap into if you enter a creative session with the mindset that you’re going to go unfiltered into this world, shining your light unabashedly, being yourself like no one else can, so that—SO THAT—you may give your audience a brief respite from the world, and even a shot of love, or perhaps a new perspective, a glimmer of hope, a challenge to make amends with a friend, or themselves, a chance to see how someone else views the world.

There’s a favorite quote of mine that I think belongs here, though you might have to do the work to tie it in. Dr. James Doty wrote in his wonderful book Mind Magic:

Only when we believe we are enough in ourselves do we find the ability to contribute to life, but only in contributing to our world do we discover we are inherently enough.

When you crack open your next blank page or canvas, or when you next grab your guitar to set out to write a song, run the idea up your spine that we are here to contribute and serve. You might just find a power that you never knew before.