Last week, I began co-teaching one of our creative writing
courses with the playwright Ben Musgrave. And when Ben asked the class to write
down something they believed in ‘as a writer’, I thought I’d take part in the
exercise too. At first I was slightly surprised by what I wrote: ‘your writing
needs to be true enough’. But as we started talking about our
different answers, I realised I’d been thinking through versions of Ben’s
question for a very long time.
The search for ‘authenticity’ and’ truth’ is a preoccupation
for many writers. And at the same time, we’re often given advice like ‘write
what you know’ – as if that will automatically confer some kind of truthfulness
on our work. But writers are always champing at the bit to write what
they don’t know, just as readers want to read what is new and
unfamiliar. (Which reminds me of something similar I once heard a theatre
director say: that an audience most wants an authentic voice from a world
they’ve never been to.)
Writers quickly understand, therefore, that truth and
truthfulness are very slippery ideas. What will happen to them both as our
imaginations take flight, as characters drawn from our own experience develop
lives of their own? And perhaps more worryingly, how can you be sure
that your work speaks to your own wider sense of truth? Your feelings about the
way the world is, or ought to be. Not all writers are motivated by such ‘moral’
concerns, but many of us worry about the ‘meaning’ of our work, and how
that meaning translates onto our own values, our own beliefs about what is
true.
The problem for me is that I always find
it impossible to quite pinpoint meaning – at least, not without reducing
what I’m writing to a banal platitude, or trivially obvious statement. It’s
also impossible to ever say, once and for all, what I believe about
something. Instead, I find myself constantly testing the things I feel most
certain about, unable to avoid the possibility that I’m wrong, that things
aren’t really that way at all. In other words, I never know what the whole
truth is about what I’m writing, or about my own values, or what I think might
need to change about the world.
Which is where true enough comes in – a
strategy, maybe, to stop me becoming frozen in the headlights, confused and
intimidated by the difficulty in achieving complete truthfulness or authenticity.
I find that I can continue to have faith in something I’m working on as long as
there is at least some truth – some moments
of recognition, some details from my own life and experience
which I feel, for now, I can stand by. Perhaps, for me, truth is like a single
drop of dye in a pipette, with the power to colour an entire cup of water.
All this is why, when another writer comes to me and says
that they are stuck with their idea – when they’ve lost interest, or belief in
it – I suggest that they give the story, or one of its characters, a little bit
of themselves. To hand over a detail from their own life. Because usually that
tiny injection of the author’s real, lived experience is enough to re-vitalise
the story, and rekindle the writer’s passion for telling it.
(cross-posted at writewestminster.wordpress.com)
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