It’s a maxim as old as the quill: write about that with which you are familiar, knowledgable or experienced.
Conventional, classic advice, but is it true?
Please settle in while I offer you the Great Debate:
Be it resolved that a writer should always write what he/she knows.
[Moderator]: Affirmative, you are arguing in favour of the resolution. Please begin.
AFFIRMATIVE
A writer hopes to create a bond with his/her reader; there is an implicit pact, a silent contract between the two. The writer is to offer up a story and the reader is to believe it.
For such a treaty to succeed, the writer must necessarily make his/her plot and characters authentic. That’s not to say they need to exist in the “real world”; a fantasy can as easily be believed as a realistic novel, but it must contain a grain of truth and wisdom that can arise only from the personal.
Evidence:
God?
God?
Lyra slides down her locker to the cold hard floor, cell phone in hand, staring at the text from her boyfriend Jonah. Staring at the text from, it seems, her now ex-boyfriend Jonah.
God doesn’t want our relationship to work. Sorry.
It is the opening of my novel and despite the “super powers” that Lyra will soon discover, I can assure my reader that the story rings true.
I can assure him/her of that because it happened to me.
Details have been altered, true, but the essence is real.
It was the beginning of my Grade 11 year. I had been dating Peter since the spring, but he had been away at camp all summer so we had seen very little of each other. I was excited then, to discover on the first day of school, that we shared the same English class.
My excitement lasted a day-and-a-half. On the afternoon of the second day, on my way to the school bus, Peter handed me a note (that’s the old-fashioned way we texted, in case you were unfamiliar with a piece of paper scribbled over in pen).
God doesn’t want our relationship to work. Sorry.
I swear, it’s true, and to this day, I have all my friends beat for the most unusual first-boyfriend break-up story. How, I raged, can you fight against God?
Turns out God was right. While Peter and I did mend our friendship and we kept in touch long past high school, our relationship was not meant to be. (Little did I know the future love of my life was, in fact, in that very same English class I’d been so excited about that first day. 🙂 The ironies of life…)
But it is not simply the personal experiences from which a writer can mine for his/her characters. His or her knowledge is vital, too.
Evidence:
Lyra has been in churches before. They are all over the First World, leftover from the age of religion. There are dozens in Thorin Hill alone; in fact, the Orchestra’s favorite venue for smaller, intimate performances is a centuries-old gothic cathedral downtown. Yet now their purpose is art and architecture, enjoyed for their beauty and craftsmanship. They are, as Lyra thinks of it, defanged, the poison of religion drained from the body. But here now she walks toward the small cliffside church [in the Second World] as if the serpent’s fanged tooth will strike.
Yet the small church, a thick stone structure no large than a country cottage, looks enchanting instead of threatening. Inside, she hears piano music, a soft, poignant refrain reminiscent of Charlotte Harmon’s favorite songs. Along the walls are stained glass windows, three on each side, lit by flickering taper candles. At the front, raised two steps, is an ornate wooden table, intricately carved, and behind it, hanging on the wall is a large, yet simple wooden cross.
 “There’s no figure on the cross,” Lyra observes as David ushers her into the back pew. She thinks of the disturbing image of the crucifix in George Hendricks’s kitchen.
 “This is a Protestant church,” David explains. “The Catholics have the body of Jesus on their cross.”
“They’re two different religions?” Lyra asks.
David shakes his head, smiling. “No, they are both Christian. They both believe that Jesus is the Son of God, resurrected to save them from their sins.”
Lyra frowns, confused. “Why are they separate?”
“Ah, yes, an excellent question,” David sighs. “It is a matter of interpretation. The Protestants believe the Bible, our holy book, is the only source of God’s word, but the Catholics believe their traditions such as worshipping Mary, the human mother of Jesus and praying to saints are just as binding. Then there is the Pope. He is the head of the Catholic Church and Catholics believe he is the representative of Christ on Earth which means he is infallible, yet Protestants believe that all humans are fallible and therefore only Jesus can be the head of the Church.”
 Infallible, worship, saints, holy books… The words David uses sound foreign; they sound strange and awkward to her ear.
I grew up in a Christian (Protestant) household. I write with confidence about the knowledge and experience of church. While I may fact-check to ensure accuracy, the essence of that which I know is true.Â
Finally, a writer who ventures beyond his/her knowledge risks–at minimum–spreading inaccurate information, or, at most, offending readers with a poor understanding or awareness of a topic about which the readers themselves are keenly aware.
Evidence:
“Sit,” she tells Lyra. “I’ll help you with your hijab.”
Ayaan pulls a brush through Lyra’s long black hair and secures it in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Ayaan then drapes the silk cloth over Lyra’s head with one side longer than another. She expertly wraps the longer side around her chin and up over her head, then secures it with a jeweled scarf pin in an intricate shape of an infinity symbol. The cloth sits loosely; Lyra doesn’t feel as restricted as she thought, but still, the hijab takes some getting used to.
“Am I causing some kind of offense if I wear this?” Lyra asks. “I’m not Muslim.”
Ayaan smiles at Lyra’s consideration. “Not at all. Women in many other cultures and many other religions also choose to wear scarves. It is a form of modesty and that is not the sole domain of Muslim women.”
“That’s why you wear it? Modesty?” Lyra tugs at the soft silk, still uncomfortable with the material around her chin. She has difficulty equating a headscarf with a skirt that falls below the knees or a shirt that buttons up to the neck. It’s as if those fashions were dictated by conventions that felt it was inappropriate for a woman to show off her body in front of men. Lyra has always resented the idea that women are expected to dress in a way that wouldn’t “distract” men, as if all of them are uncontrollable animals. Why not let the world see your ankles, or your chest, or, in this case, your hair? It’s what you’re born; why hide it?
“Modesty is only one reason,” Ayaan says, looking pleased to share her beliefs. “I like that I can control who sees me; there is less judgment.”
“Less judgement?” The words ring false for Lyra; a woman in a hijab—not something she’s ever seen in the First World—is always to be pitied that she should be forced to cover up.
“No one comments on my looks,” Ayaan explains.
Lyra finds this difficult to accept. “Then they will comment on your hijab, I’m sure,” she says wryly.
Ayaan smiles. “Perhaps, but it makes me more comfortable and that’s what’s important. Consider your First World style of swimsuits. Do you wear a bikini?”
Lyra nods. Her favorite is a beautiful, beaded black two-piece that contrasts with her milky white skin.
“Yet you do not walk around outside in your underwear and bra?”
“Of course not.”
“But one shows just as much of your body as the other, yes?”
“Yes…” Lyra agrees, unsure where Ayaan is going with this.
“It is the same with my hair. It would be like me walking outside in my underwear. I would feel uncomfortable.”
I am not Muslim; I have no close friends who are, so I get my information from other sources (blogs, websites, comments from acquaintances…) Am I accurately interpreting the experiences of Muslim women? Is there such a thing as an experience of a Muslim woman when each woman, living in different cultures, is unique?
Will I cause offence? Will I dissuade Muslims who may be affronted by my ill-informed interpretation from continuing to read? Will I inadvertently disseminate an inaccurate stereotype to those readers who, like me, do not know better and therefore jeopardize the very intent of opening up understanding?
The risk is too great. Therefore, it is wiser for a writer to write only what he/she knows.
[Moderator]: Thank you, Affirmative. Negative, you now have the floor to argue against the resolution.
NEGATIVE:
Back in my high school days, a friend (at least I thought of him as such as the time…) chastised me for my comfortable, sheltered existence. He was an adventurer, a soul attuned to others’ hardships and even at a young age he travelled widely and opened his eyes to poor, suffering worlds beyond our own. You have not lived, he told me.
Perhaps he was right; I was all of 17 at the time. Since then, though, have I? Have I lived to the extent that he would approve? Perhaps. I’ve had the opportunity to temporarily live and teach in Tanzania, a poor, East-African country. I’ve travelled to China and Australia, all over Europe and far-flung islands in the South Pacific. I have children (and if that isn’t living, I don’t know what is…) a husband, and a full-time job to juggle with my second career as a writer. But I also have, for the majority of the time, housework and chores and laundry and groceries and homework and lunches and much, much more drudgery.
What kind of story could I create from that? I could only ever write about choosing the right combination of fruit for my kids’ lunches to ensure they’ll eat (or pretend to eat) healthy? Or the excitement of beating rush hour traffic to make it to the motor vehicles office to renew my license plate before the office closes?
A non-fiction writer once explained that he turned to writing about other people’s lives because he had been cursed with an ordinary upbringing.
If that is my curse, what kind of storyteller could I be? If I stuck only with my own life experiences, how exciting would my books be?
Besides, my own knowledge is limited. By necessity (I have no time to excel in all subjects); by temperament (I have no interest in all subjects), by luck (I have no opportunity to learn all subjects). Why, then, should I restrict myself to only what I know?
Evidence:
“Is that why you’re a spy, to not feel small?” Lyra asks.Â
Annie does not seem offended by the question, but she also doesn’t answer right away. She takes a long drink from her glass of ice water before she talks.
“I was an army brat, an only child and a mixed-race kid. Three lonely strikes against me. We moved every two years, sometimes more often, all over the globe. The First World, Second World and even in the south of the Third World. We may only have three blocs in this world, but we’re inundated with countless numbers of cultures. I learned that if I wanted to fit in, I needed to hone two extraordinarily valuable skills: observation and camouflage. I’d hide in shadows and skulk in corners, watching all the kids. I’d notice how they walked, how they laughed, how they moved in packs. I’d observe how the girls dressed, how the girls styled their hair, how the girls fluttered their eyelashes at the boys. Then, I would imitate. I’d buy the same clothes they did, wore the same make-up they did, giggled the way they did until they accepted me. At first I used my newfound skills simply to survive; as I got older, I realized their power, started to use them to my advantage. If I needed an “A” on a research paper, I’d study the behavior of the smartest kid in class, learn what she liked, adopt her interests, ingratiate myself with her, flatter her, beg her for help and before long, she’d written my essay for me.”
“You cheated?” Lyra asks, surprised. She sits up and shifts, cross-legged, toward Annie, intrigued by her story.
“I used my skills to leverage other people’s,” Annie airily waves off the accusation.
“You manipulated them,” Lyra laughs.
“Turns out I had a flair for it,” Annie admits, smiling. “My boyfriend in college found me out—he possessed my skill set and had been recruited by the IA as an on-campus infiltrator to stop Second World extremists—oh yes,” Annie adds, noting Lyra’s startled expression. “We’ve been fighting religious fanaticism for decades. Anyway, he recommended me to his bosses and, just like that, I got a job.”
“That was lucky,” Lyra says.
“Luck is a double-edged sword,” Annie’s smile fades. She’s quiet, lost again in the power of the ocean and Lyra waits patiently. When Annie resumes, her voice is tinny and artificial. “I got a stimulating job, and they got an indentured servant.” She smiles wryly. “They own me,” Annie explains. “The way the army owned my mom. I vowed I would never join the military. I wanted my kid to only ever know one house, one place to call home. Didn’t work out that way.”
I’ve never been an army brat, an only child, a mixed-race kid or a spy. But I like that Annie is. Why can’t I conjure her just because I haven’t lived her fictitious life?
I learn more, too, by expanding the topics about which I write. Through basic research, I can expand my own horizons and open up my own mind.
Evidence:
 “Thaddeus saved me by bringing me to the Second World, but I was young and immature and ungrateful. When we first arrived in Stone Town, there were few jobs for Third World immigrants. We lived in a rat-infested tenement with a half-dozen other wretched souls like us while Thaddeus looked for work. He refused to let me join him; he expected me to study so I could gain acceptance and a scholarship into university. He did not want me to waste my life.”
David tone turns bitter at the boy he was. “But I did exactly that.”
Lyra does shift closer; she wishes she could protect him from his own self-loathing.
“Thaddeus eventually found work in a fish-canning factory an hour’s walk from our house. It was a dirty, stinking, thankless job that paid barely enough for food, and I resented it. I hated that we struggled—that Thaddeus struggled, and I did nothing. So when a man I’d met often on our street offered me a lot of money to make a delivery for him, I did not refuse.”
“Drugs?” Lyra asks.
David nods. “I became a very effective drug runner and tucked away a lot of money. I knew I could not give it all to Thaddeus—he would have been furious to know how I was making the money—but I started buying a few small things. Extra food, a pillow, new shoes… I think Thaddeus suspected, but he appreciated the extras, too, so he remained silent
 “Until I brought home an old, rusted bicycle.” Here, David cracks a wry smile, as if asking how a simple bike could lead to mass destruction. “I did it for Thaddeus, you understand,” and again Lyra hears the childhood whine, a plea.
David may not be real, his experiences may not be real, but the struggles on which his story is based are real. Even though I myself have not lived through such difficult times, I can still work on making the story ring true.
Finally, the world does not have the experiences I may want to write about.
Evidence:
“I’m Annie Wisteria,” the woman says. She keeps her distance, hasn’t yet moved from the dusty shoulder of the road, as if she is approaching a skittish creature. “I know you survived the Thorin Hill High bombing and that you escaped without injury.”
Lyra freezes. This woman must be a reporter, must have been lying in wait by her house, ready to pounce on her prey.
The woman seems unphased by Lyra’s silence. “But that’s not true, is it? You were seriously injured. I know your legs were crushed when they pulled you out of the rubble, but by the time you got to the hospital, they had healed.”
Lyra stops breathing.
Annie continues. “More importantly, Lyra, I know why.”
 The woman has Lyra’s attention. Lyra keeps control; she still does not move, but her heart is bursting, her mind screaming, tell me why, why, why?
 Annie Wisteria, emboldened as if she has snared her prey, trots toward Lyra. She’s a petite woman in her 40s with smooth milk chocolate skin, small black-pearl eyes, teardrops like Emily’s, and shiny black hair plaited into a thick French braid. She makes no motion to hold out her hand; she seems to suspect Lyra won’t shake it.
“I heard about your miracle survival on the news,” Annie explains.
Lyra narrows her eyes, her body tense, ready to fight, ready to flee. Still wrapped in her dad’s sweater, she feels the rising sun on her back already burning hot at this early hour. The day promises to be a scorcher.
Annie ignores Lyra’s distrust and carries on. “I don’t believe in miracles, do you?” Annie does not wait for a reply. “No, there’s always a scientific explanation. Something unexplained seems miraculous only because we don’t yet know the rational answer.”
“But you know the rational answer,” Lyra says, her voice coated in sarcasm.
Annie laughs and the sound is pleasant, like a chiming bell. “Me? No, good heavens, I’m not a scientist. But I know a scientist who does. At least he believes he does.”
Lyra raises her eyebrow, crosses her arms, wary. She doesn’t believe this woman.
 She wants to believe this woman. “I’m listening.”
 “Super cells.”
 “Super cells?”
“Super cells.” Annie pauses. The wind ruffles the stray pieces of Annie’s hair that have escaped her braid. Absently, she pushes them out of her face, her eyes intent on Lyra’s.
“Dr. Hendricks has a theory. Want to hear it?”
 Lyra looks steadily at Annie, but doesn’t answer.
“Dr. Hendricks believes you can never die.”
Super cells? Immortality? How can I write about what I know when the ideas I have don’t exist in reality? Isn’t that why we have an imagination? To write beyond our experiences, our own small lives?
Therefore, I argue that a writer should write what he/she does not know to create better, unique, memorable stories.
[Moderator]: Thank you, both Affirmative and Negative. I regret that we have no time for rebuttals; instead we will leave the final verdict up our audience.
Readers? What do you think? Should writers write only what they know?
