In my latest book, a mystery titled Aftermath, forty-year-old Janet Wright has decided to move back to the tiny South Georgia town where she was born to reinvent herself and write her mother’s story. She spends the novel being constantly pulled away from her goal as she delves ever-deeper into the murder of her estranged father, a supposedly open-and-shut case that turns out to be a tangled web of lies, shame, and scandal. Janet’s quest to tell her mother’s tale is further complicated by the fact that she knows next to nothing about the writing craft. However, there is an inspirational resource upon which she can draw: bestselling horror writer David Stark, the town celebrity.
Though my novels are never autobiographical, every book features one or more characters who serve as my mouthpiece, giving voice to my opinions and viewpoints. In Aftermath, David offers to Janet his take on writing and its payoff for readers:
“A beginning writer is the sorcerer’s apprentice,” he began.
Not understanding, I frowned and shook my head. He tried again: “Writing well is like doing magic. Look at this.” He pushed a button on the laptop and it came to life with a symphonic sound and a lit-up screen. Pointing at the manuscript on the display, he said, “What we call letters and punctuation are just abstract symbols — meaningless pixels or ink on a page. It’s all made up. When we come into this world, we don’t understand any of it.”
He patted the area over his heart. “The only things we understand as little kids are basic emotions: mad, sad, glad, and scared. We have to be taught everything about language, the alphabet, what all these letters mean, because they don’t have any inherent meaning. You need to learn how each one sounds and how the combinations of them form words, each of which has a definition you also have to learn. Again, because it’s all made up. Are you with me now?”
I said I was, and he continued, “None of it means anything — and yet….” He let that hang there a moment and gestured at the screen again. “And yet, if you take these abstract, meaningless marks and string them together in just the right way, you can make someone feel rage or cry or laugh or piss their pants in terror. These made-up symbols can cause a genuine, deep down — real — emotion.” He tapped his heart again. “At our best, writers use something completely artificial and false — a lie — to produce an actual, true feeling in you. That, my friend, is doing magic.”
I’ve made this little speech to beginning writers for years and, for me at least, it continues to ring true. For those curious to discover how to do such magic, David reveals the secret to Janet in the continuation of that scene. For everyone, I encourage you to look for this craftsmanship in the books you enjoy: it might give you an additional level of pleasure and appreciation as you continue to revel in the magic of words.