After reading my novel, Left Unsaid, some asked, Is this autobiographical? Is it about you?
I like the question because it tells me the writing sounds real. It must be working.
And I get the question. Like many novels, Left Unsaid is written in the first person “I.” And like the protagonist in my story, I am a preacher’s kid. Readers are curious. We wonder. What parts of this are about the author? Is this just the writer’s life cloaked in fiction?
But here’s the paradox. It’s about you.
Have you ever faced a life-or-death decision? Took a step into the unknown? Ever felt like an outsider among your peers, or in your own family? Homeless in your own home? Ever felt the elation of discovered love, only to be judged for the person you love? Been betrayed by a friend? Felt torn between allegiances? Struggled with anxiety? Found yourself under the thumb of someone more powerful? If your answer is yes to any of these, this story is about you. And about me. About us.
This emotional, human connection is what every writer strives for. To relate to our most personal fears, desires, and joys. The best novels are about all of this in all of us. If you can feel the characters, their dilemmas and conflicts, if you can empathize, it’s about you, even if the scenarios of the story are not yours. This is the power of stories.
But what about the details, situations, and scenarios in the story? How much is the writer’s own life?
Some novels are intentionally autobiographical—Dicken’s David Copperfield. John Irving’s The World According to Garp. When the novelist writes directly about his or her experiences. This is more rare than it is usual. Other novels are partially autobiographical, like Miriam Toews’ All My Puny Sorrows. Most are not at all autobiographical, technically. Articles and books have been written on the topic, “fiction as the writer’s life.”
But what about for me? In Left Unsaid, tidbits and soundbites have risen from my subconscious, almost accidentally, many of which I only noticed reflecting back on what I’d written. But the bulk of the story—its characters scenarios, events—are artifacts of my imagination.
Like Gideon in Left Unsaid, I moved with my family as a kid having no sayin the decision, and struggled to belong in my new home. Probably not a unique experience. Also, I was raised in a small conservative town, where it was shameful to utter the word “sex” in public. I was a preacher’s kid, and I did have a mentally disabled sibling though very different from Jerry. I dated girls outside my culture though never a Native American girl. I’ve witnessed the aftermath of a tornado, but not like the one Gideon experienced. And I never had to face the Vietnam draft though almost did. Those are broad comparisons to Gideon’s world, which helped in creating his story. Still, Gideon’s story is very different from mine.
It’s an old adage, “We write what we know. Art reflects life.” Though we draw from our experience, in fiction similarities to an author’s life are often unconscious and subconscious. Novels more often reflect a writer’s personal mythology, what’s important to them, what they’ve struggled with, and what they’re curious or passionate about. These deeper realities usually emerge in my stories unawares to me until I look back at what I’ve written.
There is an invigorated self-awareness that comes with reflecting on your own novel and hearing others comment on your work. It’s one reason I not only love writing stories but also like holding reading events. It can be a bit scary. After all, I’m making myself vulnerable, but readers become vulnerable too as they read. I don’t write just for myself. I write for readers, and I want them to find themselves in my stories.
Bottom line, usually the less you know about the writer the better. Not knowing helps a reader get lost in the story.
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