So You Need Some Inspiration? Try Some RPC: Risk, Passion and
Creativity!
You want to write. You really do. But the passion you feel never
gets translated into actual writing. And if it does, it doesn't
last very long. You run out of steam.
There are reasons for this. First, you may be writing out of
your conscious mind. Another problem for many writers is that
they don't have enough technical facility with the craft of
writing to know how to develop a piece. That can be taught, but
technical facility alone won't do the trick. Technical facility
lies in the domain of the left brain, and you'll give the Inner
Critic an open season if you fixate on technique alone. But
technique fed by passion is unstoppable.
Passion = Creativity and Creativity = Passion
Think of what happens when you are passionately, lustfully in
love. Are you not amazed at the risks you take to be with your
beloved? Are you not amazed by how wonderful and beautiful you
feel? Are you not amazed at the creativity that is unleashed all
around? Passion, risk, belief in self--these are paramount to
the creative experience.
I have a theory that has been very successful in my teaching. I
believe that anyone who has taken the trouble to find me and
taken the risk of coming to see me much less signed up for a
series of workshops or private lessons has a writer within dying
to break free. With that in mind, even if the person is a
novice, I never experience her as such. Instead, I imagine I'm
talking to the Inner Writer whom I feel already knows everything
I have to teach.
The aim of my teaching is first to acknowledge the Inner Writer
and give her permission to come to the fore. She is a bit groggy
from being kept in the shadows for so long, so I need to remind
her of certain things. The Inner Writer literally soaks up the
teaching, and if allowed, will guide the student into whatever
landscape and characters beckon. Sometimes in only one session a
character never before dreamed of flies free.
"But I've never thought about such things before," the writer
will say, sometimes delighted, sometimes taken aback. "I didn't
know . . ."
"Not in the conscious mind," I tell them. "But in the dream
world and flights of dark fancy you knew." The knowing beyond
knowing is a place of comfort and excitement for the writer
within.
This method of teaching or dialoguing with a student's Inner
Writer has had results that I once found astounding and now muse
over. Let me tell you about Jean, whose success is one of
never-ending delight and inspiration not only to me but also to
others in the class. Jean was an unassuming schoolteacher when
she came into my workshop. She hadn't written any fiction in
five years, and her first months in class were difficult.
Week after week Jean was sent back to the drawing board; the
situations she wrote about had potential, but the characters
were somewhat stiff and unbelievable. There was one character of
more interest than the others; he was emotionally bloodthirsty
and seemed to devour, suck out the lifeblood of those around
him. I urged Jean to go more deeply into his dark emotions. This
was difficult for Jean, whose Inner Critic basically wanted her
to make nice stories, certainly not to write about such subjects
as violence and definitely not sex.
But Jean had a passionate need to write. It is possible to sense
a writer's passion even if it is shackled. It rises off the page
in bursts of unexpected electric currents; it is like a caged
panther filled with a devouring hunger for freedom.
Each week I pushed Jean further and further, driving her deeper
and deeper into stories lying in her character's past, exploring
his motivations, finding out what makes him tick. In essence, I
was pushing Jean to become this character. To forget herself and
move into the skin, the blood, muscles and sinews of her
character, to see the world through his eyes.
This is an extremely subtle and important move--out of self and
into the character. You never want your character to be you.
Instead, you must become your character. This is truly a
wondrous metamorphosis, and when it happens, you can feel it in
your body, mind and heart; it is the moment when you cease being
you with all your doubts, judgments, desires and Inner Critic
yappings and move into the being of another. Then no matter if
the character stands for everything you are not (and some of
your best characters will), you have moved out of judgment, you
are no longer writing from the left side of the brain and you
have fallen not only down the Rabbit Hole but in love. You see
your character's flaws, but no longer judge them. You love your
character despite his flaws, you love him for his flaws, you
love, you are in love, and the real magic can begin. You no
longer try to stop or change the character. You are passionately
along for the ride.
I could sense Jean was approaching this place. She kept on
saying things like, "I don't know why I like this guy so much.
He's mean, he's brutal, he cheats on his wife, envies and hates
his brother, but . . ." She couldn't help smiling and her eyes
lit up. "I can't help loving him."
She kept on writing about this fiend, and although the writing
improved, it still didn't reflect the passion that Jean clearly
felt. And then in the middle of a workshop, her emotionally
bloodthirsty character transformed in my mind into a vampire and
I asked her, "Do you like horror stories?"
"I love them," she said as if that were a deep, dark, dirty
secret. Jean's eyes are always a dead giveaway to her inner
delights. They sparkled as she admitted to what her Inner Critic
surely thought was a sinister truth, and she laughed nervously.
"So write a vampire story," I said.
"Oh, no, I couldn't!" she protested.
"Oh, yes, you can. Next week, come in with one."
She did. She wrote a cute vampire story, on the surface.
Underneath, however, I sensed she'd hit a vein--so to speak.
Beneath the cute, the characters were bleeding. She didn't sense
this, but I encouraged her to write more vampire "stuff," to
take more chances, go deeper, darker, bloodier.
It was a process that took months, and Jean had to wrestle with
some pretty powerful demons, but a year and a half later, she is
nearly finished with the first draft of a terrific horror novel.
The hero is a vampire who is as seductive as he is bloody; but
the novel is also humorous, sometimes deliciously
tongue-in-cheek and, at its core, explores what all good writing
explores, the shadow side of the human condition, that confusing
place in all of us where good struggles with evil, love dances
with hate, lust rushes unbidden through our veins, and mercy,
tenderness and forgiveness slip through our fingers again and
again. And sometimes I think that best of all is that Jean is
having the time of her life!
The following excerpt from Jean's book shows the lush sensuality
of her embracing of the darkside. The vampire hero, Devon
Ducayne, has just murdered an important politician to the
strains of a chamber music concert. As the man falls lifeless,
there is a knock on the door and his daughter enters.
****
"Father, you are missing the concert. Bring your guest out.
Let's enjoy the . . ."
A young woman, slender, tall, and attractive, stepped into the
room. Devon recognized her as Frawley's daughter, Mary. She
looked with horror at the body of her father draped over the
desk. She opened her mouth as if to scream when the vampire
bounded through the air and hurled himself at her. She bounced
against the wall with a loud sigh as the air was knocked out of
her. Stunned, she dropped onto the floor and slammed her head
against the edge of a cumbersome bookcase.
Blood gushed from an open wound. It splattered over the floor
and formed bizarre patterns on the white wall. A satiny red
puddle next to the girl widened and glistened in the dim light
of the fire. She was barely alive; he felt the warmth of her
body; he heard the soft irregular breathing. He smelled the
sweetness of the blood, saw vapors lifting from the pool. He
felt his loins grow warm. He ached to feed. He felt the sticky
texture of the fluid on her soft curls. Flicking his tongue in
and out he licked at the wound and pressed his lips to the
girl's neck in eager anticipation. The music stopped.
"Sir Henry! Are you there, sir?"
The guests were out in the hall just beyond the door. They were
milling about waiting for their host. Devon rose. "Damn you all
to Satan's fires!" he muttered. He looked back with longing at
the girl. Life was draining from her body. "Sorry, my dear," he
murmured as though they had been lovers who were interrupted in
their mutual fervor.
****
Jean took the risk to go to places her Inner Critic thought
inappropriate; she released the passion--both hers and her
characters'--and her belief in herself, in her creativity, flew
free as a bat rising against a full moon!