“Where do you get your ideas?”
I don’t think there’s an author who ever existed who doesn’t
get that question. My usual answer is “I buy them in bulk from Costco.” But
here’s a little secret, between you and me…I don’t, actually. The truth is, I
steal them.
Yep. I’m a thief. All my story ideas come from life. Things
I see or hear, stories other people tell me about what they’ve seen and heard
or done. Everything goes into the vast compost heap of my brain and gets
stirred around until something pops out.
“Do you do everything you write about?”
As an author of erotic fiction, perhaps I get this question
more than someone who writes mystery or science fiction, but it always makes me
laugh and shake my head. “Yes,” I say. “Sometimes twice or upside down.” But of
course I don’t do everything I write about! Who’d have time? My goodness, it’s
hard enough to write books and do all the other stuff my life requires like
eat, sleep and talk to other human beings — how on earth would I find the time
to do everything I write about?
“How do you decide what to write about?”
“Write what you know” is another of those bits of advice
authors get (or like to give to newbie writers!) — and I’ll argue that’s not
entirely accurate. I’d say that I don’t always write what I know, but I always
write what I can imagine. I write what I wish would happen to me, or what I
fear happening to me. Sometimes those are the same things. I write what I have
experienced and what I hope I never have to face.
Those are the top three questions I get asked, and the truth
is, all three are sort of the same question. HOW DO YOU WRITE? And really,
there is no simple answer to that. Every writer does it differently, and
there’s no magic potion, there is no special club or secret handshake, there is
no One True Way. Oh, sure, you’ll get those who want to convince you that there
is (usually their way = the OTW) or that if you just manage to do everything on
a specific check list, you too can write your very! Own! Novel!
Believe me, it ain’t that easy. Most things that are
worthwhile aren’t. Writing my September release, Tear You Apart, was a hideous
experience. Compared to other books in which every single word had to be
dragged up, hand over hand, from the mind-well, you’d imagine that being able
to type for an hour and realize I’d written an entire chapter would’ve been
gratifying. In many ways, much of the novel came out without effort, in that
when I sat down to work on it, the words flew out. But each of those words felt
like a dagger piercing me all over in my soft and tender places. I was
emotionally drained. Satisfied, yes, but shredded. Tear You Apart is perhaps
some of my darkest work, emotionally, and yet I feel like it’s also maybe some
of my best.
In my experience, the only way to write a novel is to tear
yourself apart. Dig deep and find all those things you’d rather were kept in
the dark. Mine your emotions and strip yourself, layer by layer, to get at all
the stuff that makes great books great. Because at the heart of it, all great
fiction springs from emotion. Fear, love, hate, joy. The genre doesn’t matter.
In the end, it’s all about how it makes us feel.
Excerpt from Tear Yourself Apart:
The piece is simple. Carved, polished wood. There's no real
form or figure, though the piece is evocative of a woman's body. The smooth
curve of hip and thigh and belly and breasts, the curl and twist of hair. It's
not a woman, but it feels like one. Without thinking, I touch it. She feels
like a woman. My fingers curl against my palm as I take my hand away. I
shouldn't have touched it. Oils from my fingers could harm the finish. It's not
a museum piece, but even so, it's not right to ruin it.
And Will is right. I like this one. I have no place for
something like that in my home, but suddenly, I want it.
"Do you know who did it?" I'm already looking for
the artist's card.
Will says nothing. I look at him, thinking he'll be smiling,
but he's not. He's studying me.
"I knew you'd like that one."
My body tenses. I'm not sure if I don't like the way he says
it, or if I like it too much. Either way, I frown. "You sound so
proud."
Will looks at the piece of carved wood that shouldn't look
like anything but looks like a woman. "I like to figure out what people
like. I mean, it's important, you know? For an artist who wants to sell his
shit."
"Is that what it's about, for you? Selling things? I
thought real artists wanted to...you know. Make art."
He laughs, low. "Sure. But I'm also into paying my rent
and eating. Not many people can live on art."
Not many of the people displaying here in Naveen's gallery
tonight, anyway. New York city has galleries like this all over the place.
Competition's fierce. I told him to keep his Philly gallery, but he insisted on
branching out. I'm still not sure this one's going to make it.
"So...you like to know what people like, so you can
sell them things."
"Sure." Will's grin is a little sly. "And I
was right about you. Wasn't I?"
"Yes." For some reason, I'm reluctant to admit it.
He nods like I just revealed a secret. Maybe I have.
"You like things smooth."
I take a step away from him. How could he know that? Hell.
Until a few minutes ago, I'm not sure I knew it.
Will nods again. "Yeah. Smooth. And curved. You don't
like sharp things. Angles and shit. You don't like it when there are
points."
"Who does?" My voice is anything but smooth.
"Some people do." Will looks again at the carved
wood. "You should buy it. It would make you happy."
My laugh snags, like a burr. "Who says I need to be
happy?"
"Everyone needs to be happy, Elisabeth," Will
says.
Oh, my name.
When he says my name, I see it in shimmering shades of blue
and green and gray. Those are not my colors. I'm red and orange and yellow.
Brown. My name is autumn moving on toward winter darkness, but not the way Will
says it. When he says my name, I see summer. I see the ocean.
Blinking hard, I have to look away from him. My breath
catches in my throat. I'm sure I can't speak, not even one word.
I was born and then I lived awhile. Then I did some stuff
and other things. Now, I mostly write books. Some of them use a lot of bad
words, but most of the other words are okay.
I can’t live without music, the internet, the ocean or Coke Zero. I
can’t stand the feeling of corduroy or velvet, and modern art leaves me cold. I
write a little bit of everything from horror to romance, and I don’t answer to
the name “Meg.”
site: www.meganhart.com
twitter: twitter.com/megan_hart
1 comment:
Interesting excerpt!
Pat C.
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