I'm not crazy...no, really, I'm not!

You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke. ~Arthur Polotnik

Recently, I was hit by a bolt of lightning. Okay, so not physically, but it felt real enough to me. I was reading over some of my writing and trying to figure out what the heck I’ve been doing with myself—what exactly my purpose is—and realized that while each of my heroines is different, they share a similar struggle. In each of my mss, my characters are searching for happiness. I don’t even think happiness is the right term because that emotion, while euphoric and exciting, is fleeting. I’d like to think that my characters are out for joy and contentment.

Being the type of person I am, I went on a soul-searching journey to figure out why I’m putting these people through so much for something that isn’t tangible by any means and is so subjective. For every question I put to myself, I received one answer. BECAUSE. That’s not the entire answer, of course. As my mom always said when I was much younger, because is not a reason.

Here’s the real deal. Every year, I go to a writer’s conference in LaJolla, California. It is intimate, but rife with opportunities to engage in conversations with bestselling authors, agents and editors. For the brave—or insomniacs—there are read and critique sessions available with the staff. Ten of us gathered on the first night with our precious mss or screenplays to get feedback, brainstorm, or revel in the energy that only writers seem able to generate. I did all three. That night, we sat with Warren Lewis—author of the screenplay The 13^th Warrior—and shared our work.

I don’t remember much of what happened that night—something about the wine at dinner followed by cocktails, did me in. But I did come away with one thought: All fiction is somewhat autobiographical. Not his quote, but as the name of the actual phrase-coiner is lost in that wine/vodka/insomniac haze, it’s the best I can do. We writers are told all the time to write what we know. Is this a bad time to admit how much I hate that adage? Every time I hear it, that niggling bit of self-doubt, which sometimes does a better job of screaming out than my characters, surges forth to say I don’t know anything. This begets an encouraging stint of positive self-talk that rambles on longer than this post. A nasty cycle of wasted time, to be sure, but at least each grows shorter as time moves on.

Anyway, I admitted to myself that night that Mr. Lewis is absolutely correct. Each of my characters has some bit of me, whether it’s gulping steaming mugs of hot coffee, a need to eradicate chaos from every aspect of their personal life, or the kernel of self-doubt. They are a little like me. Hey, what do you know? I’m writing on something in which I have a grain silo of knowledge. So what does that say about them searching for supreme joy? Yeah, I know that journey. It’s long, painful, tinged with rejection, but SO totally worth it. Now I wonder where I’ll take my characters (more like where they’ll take me—still can’t make them obey too well) once this happiness kick is worked out of my system. It should be interesting.

All this thinking made me wonder… Am I the only one who sees recurring themes from one ms to another? Please tell me I’m not alone! Tell me I’m not the only one who sees bits of self in what’s supposed to be fiction. (It’s make-believe, I swear!) Or do you see themes running through your work too?