Do I write what I know? Kinda, sorta, maybe. (By Laurie Faria Stolarz)

It’s cold. You’re tired. You haven’t slept in days, even though sleep is your only escape, albeit a temporary one. 

    When was the last time you felt like yourself? Or called a friend? Or had anything to eat? 

    Over twenty-four hours? 

    More than two days? 

    Weeks? 

    How would you possibly know, curled up on the floor of a cell, imprisoned by news that hit you like a bolt of fiery lightning. Maybe cliché (and you hate cliché because you’re a writer and you’re supposed to do better), but also very true. 

    That’s how it feels. 

    Like you were struck, like your nerves got jolted, like something evil branded its initials into your heart. 

    And, in those instances when you manage to fall asleep and escape to Dreamland, your brain will force you awake, with a physical twitch, and remind you not to forget what’s real, as if you ever could. This nightmare isn’t one you can wake up from. 

    Flash forward seven months. Somehow, you were able to bust free, to break the cell door open and get away. Perhaps you came face-to-face with your “monster” and overpowered him, despite your bound wrists. Whatever the means, you’re out. “Free.” The horror has “ended.” 

    So, now what? 

    What happens after you’ve settled back home and reunited with family and friends? After you’ve told your story and pursued all of the therapeutic strategies aimed at making you feel whole and safe again? How do you deal in the aftermath of something so traumatic, when you’ve lost your sense of self, unable to recognize the stranger you’ve become? The camera lens – what the “monster” used to watch you - is gone from the cell wall, but in its place are the watchful eyes of those who love you. They’re all just watching and waiting for you to morph back into the person you once were. But that person is still missing. And in her place is this stranger you’ve become: this girl who only wants to hole herself up in her room. 

* * *

    The topic for this month’s blog is writing from life. Do I, personally, mine my own life's experience to write what I know? The excerpt above is infused with the voice of Jane (from my novel Jane Anonymous) and seasoned with bits of her story. 

    Jane is a character I developed after having processed something difficult. She’s taken and held captive for seven months, kept in a cell where she’s given meals and basic necessities. In the end, she must find her way out. And, when she does, she has to face her old life as a newer version of herself, a version she doesn’t yet recognize. 

    The idea of being taken and held captive were metaphors for something else. And, like Jane, I had to push forward as a newer version of myself. So, yes, long story short, I do in fact use my own life experience to help inform my work. I may never have been taken and held captive… 

    Or woken up, at the bottom of a dried-up water well with no knowledge of how I got there (The Last Secret You’ll Ever Keep) 

    Or been trapped inside an abandoned amusement where I had to relive my nightmare in order to get out (Welcome to the Dark House)… 

    Or had vomit-inducing premonitions that my best friend was going to die, resorting to the use of magick to help bring my nightmares to fruition (Blue is for Nightmares)… 

    Or broken into an abandoned mental institution rumored to be haunted to film a documentary (Project 17)… 

    Or had to wear a sign on my chest, written by my mother, that said “Please do not feed me” so that neighbors and friends wouldn’t offer me treats that might sabotage my weight loss (Bleed)… 

    Or hidden an accused murderer-escapee at my house so that I could unravel the details of his case (Shutter)… 

    Or fallen in love with a boy who had the power of psychometry (the ability to sense the past or future through touch) and whose touch had accidentally contributed to his girlfriend’s untimely death (Deadly Little Secret)… 

    (Trust me, I’m knocking wood a thousand times here.) 

    …but I can guarantee you that I used pieces, shards, lessons, and inspirations from my own life – in some way – to help write every single one of those stories. Because, in the end, if I can’t relate to my characters and what they’re going through – at least, on some level – conveying their stories in an authentic way, then I can’t write meaningful work.