I am sure one of the most relatable experiences across all cultures is when a little child starts responding to every single statement with that dreaded word, "Why?" You explain that they have to eat their broccoli. "Why?" Clean your room. "Why?" You shouldn't put the cat in the washing machine. "Why?" This phase is the fodder for plenty of comedy sketches, and actually a good sign that the child is now inquiring about the world around them. They grow into it much to everyone else's chagrin, bombard the world with questions, and then, sadly, grow out of this phase thinking they know everything. Hopefully they maintain a curious mind afterward, but that's not the point. The point is that we can learn something from this inquisitive yet annoying child.
A lot of people I know want to write The Great American Novel. They clearly have the skills, they can generate the time, and yet... no novel. They might even talk about their desire to write that one book, make that one profound, 78,000-word statement, and sit back in the glow of their accomplishment. Yet somehow, not one page gets created. Are they just all talk? Is this a way of them suggesting they could do something if they wanted but they just don't want to? Or is it something more?When I started writing, I wrote about things that were on my mind, wild flights of fantasy, and other fictitious things. Then people who knew my past and had an idea of my deepest, darkest secrets (usually because I told them these things) suggested I write about growing up in the south suburbs. Well, that sounded like a great idea, so I did. It was, without question, genuinely horrible stuff. It was one-dimensional, it was just a bunch of stuff happening rather than a complete story arc, and it wasn't really the kind of thing that made readers care about the character - even though they knew that character firsthand. What went wrong? The answer is simple. When people started saying I should write about my life and times, I never said, "Why?"
Frankly, for a long time I never considered this to be an important question, so I never asked that question, but the answers would've explained a lot of how those stories failed. If I asked, "Why?" and my friends said the stories were funny and people would enjoy them, that would've given me a frame of reference on how to write the story. If they were inspired about the tragedies I've overcome, well, that's an entirely different voice for the story, and a different reading audience. However, just by asking "Why?" I now had some information about just what made those stories valuable to them, and I could express the funny stories with a bouncy, humorous voice, and so on.
Let's now look at the friends who want to write The Great American Novel. "Why?" If their answer is, "It would be great to be famous," well, that's probably not the best food to nourish a writer. If they want to be an inspiration and their generation's Harper Lee, well, they had better discover something timely and deep that will resonate throughout the years. Asking "Why?" is the inquiry that forces us to better understand our motives and our drives. When we feel the need to write a story, ask, "Why?" The answer will instantly inform us about how we need to broadcast that story. And if the answer is, "Because I need to get it out of my system and onto the page," then that's a perfectly valid answer and something to work with.
Lastly, if you find yourself unable to answer that question about something that feels important to you, don't give up. Poke around and try to draw something out. Sometimes those truths are a little scared about coming to the surface, but when they do, they will reveal a lot more than the story to you. Once I answered my own, "Why?" I rewrote plenty of my life stories. They came out incredibly different, and very satisfying. More to the point, I could read them afterward and feel that they were the answer to my, "Why?"
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