What Do You Know, Anyway?

I have made a fiasco of my life, but I have had the right material to work with.

William Saroyan, My Heart's in the Highlands 1939

I doubt that there is a writer who hasn't heard from some teacher along the way, write what you know… There certainly are exceptions to that, but for the most part, (and speaking only for myself), it seems to be true. I write from my base of experience, not so much for accuracy but because that is where my passions are. That is where my personal truths are played out on the stage of my life.

If I could confine art to one definition, it would be that which creates connections where none were before. The artist sees something that others do not know that they see. I make a distinction here that others do not know that they see it, meaning that they see it, but haven't put a name to it. Something cannot exist until it is named—in the way that a fish cannot know that water exists. It is the artist who, through some fluke of nature, sees this thing out of its context and yells, Hey, guys! Over here! Willya look at this!

The fiascos of our lives are rich fodder for stories, but that isn't enough to make good writing. As a writer, I have to process that fiasco, and make some meaning out of it. More importantly, I have to go through the fiasco both as myself, and as Man, with a view toward what meaning this has universally. Therein lies the razor's edge between total egomania and absolute humility that I must walk. I have to recognize I am unique, but unique like everyone else.

Then take on the little topic of truth… (whose? Yours? Mine?) And I'm wrestling with some pretty hairy angels. Do I make it truth, with a capital T? Or is it truth spelled relatively? Come on, commit to something!!

So, I have to make a connection. Tell the truth. My truth, since who else's truth can I tell? It has to come from what I know to be true--my experience, my life of fiascos strung together as lessons on this long road to heaven. Maybe heaven. And the point? That along the way, I help someone else. That along the way, something I've said at sometime, will change the course of someone's life in a way that made a difference. I'll never know about it, either. I don't think that St. Peter has a ticket counter on his belt at the Pearly Gates, clicking off all my good deeds. I write because I just have to, that's all. So, maybe, in the end, writing is just a sick compulsion, like biting my nails…

Copyright © 2009 Stephanie Ericsson All Rights Reserved