Write what you know: none of my stories are make believe

OR: how to accidentally write CNF

A few years ago I was running a writing workshop and needed to use some of my own stories as examples. I usually balk at doing this, because it feels a bit, well, arg — but in this particular case it was a necessary arg, so that I could explain the whole process from first-to-finished draft. And as much as I love using other people’s work as examples, I don’t actually know what went through their heads while they were writing and editing and noodling with their ideas.

Pertinent point #1: We can imagine how other people are feeling/thinking — in life and in fiction — but we don’t actually know. So it’s always best to look at our own feelings/thoughts first — in life and in fiction.

The workshop in question was called Write What You Know, and was all about learning how to draw from truthful experiences to create authenticity in your writing — and, as I browsed through my own stories, looking for a relevant example to use, I suddenly realised that almost all of my short fiction is, in some way, based on a kind of truth.

In fact, there was probably a shred of reality in every single one.

None of my stories are completely make-believe.

I even started wondering if I should be recategorising some of it as creative non-fiction (CNF) instead. Tomato, tomato, I guess — especially when it comes to flash. But still. The more I looked at my work, the more I kinda proved my own point: that even if we don’t realise we’re doing it, ‘writing what you know’ freakin’ works.

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Nudge nudge: It just so happens I’m gonna be running a brand new version of my Write What You Know workshop in November with the fine folk at Write or die!

And because I love the theme of Write What You know so much, I’m also going to be writing monthly posts like this on the craft of truthful writing right here on The Joy of Fixion, so if you’re not signed up yet, this is your sign:

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But before I get into it — a clarification:

What does ‘write what you know’ actually mean?

I generally get annoyed at this sort of generic advice — especially when it gets thrown at writers with no context (don’t get me started on ‘show don’t tell’ — but that’s a whole other post).

Write what you know? What the hell do I know? Certainly nothing exciting enough to put in the kinds of stories I want to write — sci fi and westerns and fantasy and apocalyptic adventures and deep and meaningful literary tales about grown up, courageous, wise people. I don’t have any of that experience.

But then again, maybe the answer was right in front of me — in my own stories, published and unpublished, long and short, whether they are tightly tied to the truth or grew from a tiny seed of realism into something unrecognisable.

Pertinent point #2: I do write what I know.

I just… write about being a little human.

Going through my stories I found the same themes, again and again: exploring what it feels like to be a squishy, flawed, ever-learning brain, floating around in an increasingly achy meat suit.

For the most part, I’ve only written what I know. I’ve written about being a person, a woman, a parent, a sibling, a daughter, a partner. I’ve written about how endlessly complicated it is, trying to understand your own identity. I’ve written about neurodivergency — in myself, my husband, and my kids. I’ve written about joy and love and friendship and relationships. I’ve written about grief and loss and fear and anger. Big stuff. Universal stuff. Knowledge we all have — about simply being a human.

But I didn’t necessarily do any of this on purpose. Because when you look at these themes from the outside, they’re far too huge and complicated to put into words, most of the time.

For example, if I was to say: “Write a story about childhood,” or: “Write a story about friendship,” or: “Write a story about saying goodbye,” you’d probably sit there in front of a blank page, lost in the vastness of the concept.

So we make them smaller. More personal. Specific. Innocuous. Seemingly insignificant. Moments that don’t feel story-worthy, perhaps.

But that doesn’t matter. Because you start with a tiny smidgeon of truth; from a place of real knowledge.

Let’s try it again:

• Think about a time when you were a kid and didn’t understand something grown-up.

• Think about a time when you laughed with a friend until your stomach hurt.

• Think about a time when you were glad to say goodbye to someone.

I’ll bet you a shiny penny that you can come up with at least a sentence for at least one of those prompts.

And then… there’s the truth you start from.

You don’t have to write about that exact experience, or make it full CNF, or dredge up your memories to retell the actual event — it’s much more fun to use your knowledge as a jumping off point to create a whole new scenario with made up characters and situations — but the inherent knowledge of how it felt is the important part.

‘Cause now you can transfer that knowledge into a whole new fictional scenario.

Now you can write about a kid (or adult!) who feels misunderstood, lost, or confused.

Now you can write about two characters who have an incredibly close friendship.

Now you can write about an awkward goodbye or a good riddance to a terrible visitor.

Now you can make those things feel true because you know exactly how they feel, in some shape or form. And your writer instincts will start to fill in the blanks.

Pertinent point #3: Because you don’t have to know everything about what you’re writing about, but beginning with what you do know is a great way to explore the unknown…

And, y’know, you probably know quite a lot about being alive, having feelings, and being a squishy lil’ brain floating around in a meat suit.

So start there.

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Some more examples of writing from a place of truth:

To ‘write what you know’, all you really need is a place to start — just a lil’ spark of realness. Whether that’s your truth, someone else’s, a fact, an observation, a moment, a memory, whatever.

From there, you can start to make connections; seek out potential story threads; imagine how your character might feel about it all; and start to build a scene around your seed of truth…

And with a heartfelt ‘arg’, I offer you some examples from my own back catalogue, purely to fulfil the promise of this post title.

Start with an observation:

Have you ever noticed the random things that get abandoned or lost at the side of the road? Ever wondered how they got there? If anyone misses them? How many potential stories go whizzing by, untold?

I actually gave a whole interview about how this particular story came to be, but the tl;dr is that I was driving home one day and started cataloguing a bunch of random things I spotted on the bypass verge. Which led to a list. Which led to an attempt at finding meaning in that list. And a dot-to-dot connection exercise, incorporating fleeting moments from my life, drive-by moments and feelings, and hypothetical imaginings. And then… a story: Things Left and Found at the Side of the Road.

(Plus: spot how many truths you can find in the interview here.)

Start with a feeling:

Technically, the scenario in this story, The Mothers, is entirely made up. But the truth of it comes from an experience I know well. A feeling I’ve felt intimately, right in my solar plexus. I’ve been that mother. I’ve probably been that child. I’ve been in those kinds of situations more times than I can count. I’ve wanted to put my whole head into a bucket of icy water. And I know, with my whole heart, there is something magical in breathing nose-to-nose with your babies.

Start with a true fact:

Pareidolia is the phenomenon of seeing a faces in inanimate objects. I never knew the name for it, but I came across it somehow, and it struck me as an interesting little word. An even more interesting concept.

I’m working on a collection loosely based around weird facts about space, so I added ‘pareidolia’ to my notes and started researching the ‘man in the moon’ — a bunch of shadows and craters that form an imaginary face — and quickly fell down a rabbit hole of pareidoliac connections.

Somewhere along the way, my freewriting reminded me of some particularly sensory childhood memories, and My Sister, Pareidolia slowly emerged.

Not all of it is true. But it definitely started to take shape when I incorporated those moments of truth.

Start with empathy:

A few years ago, a politician was accused of assaulting a young woman when he was at college. It was a big news story. A court case. He got away with very few repercussions, as so often happens. I think he’s still probably pretty rich and powerful and walking free. But I remember watching one particular interview where this man and his whole family gathered for a photo op. And all I could focus on was how deeply, horribly uncomfortable his wife looked. How she clung to her kids. How she reacted to his presence next to her. The body language SCREAMING out of her fake smile and silence.

I don’t know what she was thinking, how she was feeling, but I’ve never been able to get rid of that unsettling visual. And I know how it feels to have to stay quiet when I want to speak out. I know how it feels to be put on display and be skin-crawlingly unhappy about it. I know how it feels to be asked questions I can’t answer. And I know, as every woman knows, what his victim might have felt, too.

So I wrote a story about a version of whatever truth might be lying behind all of that: A Statement from his Wife (obvious content warnings for references to sexual assault).

Start with a moment:

The summer after my second kid was born, deep in sleep-deprivation, I thought I’d started hearing things. I kept waking up to the sound of someone singing — an ethereal voice, drifting in through my bedroom window. No one else seemed to hear it, and it was gone as soon as I started. It was beautiful. But for about a week I was convinced I was going crazy.

Then, finally, I was in the garden hanging out the washing and I heard it again — loud and clear — a gloriously talented singer, practising some operatic solo, over and over. I couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from, or how many houses away it was, but it was REAL.

That dreamlike moment stuck with me for years. Not quite enough to make a story out of, but something. And then, as often happens, I was drafting a flash — an accumulation of assorted truths and untruths, memories and imaginary scenarios — and found the perfect space for a haunting echo of opera-on-the-wind.

There’s probably more truth than fiction in this one, Half a Glass, but I’ll let you guess what’s what. And maybe it’s more interesting that the truth I chose here was the one least connected with my actual life and experiences. Ho hum.

Start with something meta:

The title probably says everything I need to say about this one:

My son plays Minecraft and talks at me for forty minutes straight while I try to write something profound

I’m usually massively resistant to writing about writing (at least in my fiction — this whole Substack begs to differ, obviously), but this one was more of a freewriting exercise that turned into… something.

The truth is, I sat on the sofa with my laptop on my knees while my son played Minecraft and talked at me non-stop for much longer than forty minutes. And, truthfully, I got kinda annoyed, because I was trying to be a ‘serious writer’ and write something ‘worthwhile’ to submit to a competition, but now my head was full of Minecraft facts. And so, after a while, I realised that what I really ought to do was stop being such a grumpy arse and properly pay attention to what he was trying to say. Which I did. And it was much more important than writing. And later, the words happened.

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Tiny little truths, turned into slightly bigger stories. Tiny little truths, twisted into fiction. Tiny little truths, like springboards to something different-but-similar.

I’ve come to the conclusion that no story worth telling is completely make-believe. It’s just up to you how much truth is in it…

I have SO much more to say about ‘writing what you know’ — so much so that I’m going to start making it a regular post series, with exercises and examples to help you go deeper into your fiction and add authenticity and realism to your writing.

Like…

• How to collect and catalogue all the things you know

• How to write truthfully about what you don’t know

• How to write knowledgeably about people, places and things

• How to hone your observation skills

• How to (safely) access emotions and memories to use in your fiction

• How to find inspiration for writing what you know

• How to transfer your experiences into different situations

• How to develop your writing skills with the power of TRUTH

Honestly (truthfully), I could write about this stuff forever…

Also, as I mentioned at the beginning, I have a whole-ass Zoom workshop about Write What You Know coming to Write or Die in November, where you can learn all this stuff in practice, ask questions, and share your ideas and thoughts live and in-person.

More info and booking link here:

In the meantime, try imbuing a little of what you know into your writing and see what effect it has on your story.

And let me know where the truth might have crept into your work without you realising. You might be surprised, like I was, how much there is already…

Thanks for reading. And happy writing!

: )