The writing life - Steven R. Southard (Poseidon's Scribe)

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Quit and Start Over?

Songwriter Robert Lopez once wrote, “The temptation to quit and start over infects every creative process I’ve ever been in. Frustration and boredom always fuel this self-doubt.” Let’s analyze this as it applies to writing fiction.

First of all, I think we can agree Mr. Lopez speaks with some authority about the creative process. He’s won multiple Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, and Tony awards, the only person to have done so.

I suspect nearly every fiction writer knows the experience he alludes to. You get partway into a story, then pause and reflect on what you’ve done so far. Your story looks terrible now. You think it would be better to abandon that draft and start fresh. You’re torn between the fear that no amount of editing will improve the current version and the fear that a new draft won’t be any better.

It’s appropriate that Mr. Lopez used the verb “infects,” invoking the metaphor of viruses and sickness. The temptation to start over does seem like that—spreading inside you, overwhelming your immune system, and making you miserable.

We’ll get to the frustration, boredom, and self-doubt soon. First, let’s examine what happens initially in the process of creating a short story or novel. You come up with the idea, then add to it in your mind. Enthusiasm takes over as the mental picture of the finished work crystallizes. It’s going to be great.

You begin to write, but you find out enthusiasm is a tough emotion to sustain, certainly for a novel, but sometimes even for a short story. The words you’re writing don’t match the gloriously perfect story in your mind. Compared to that ideal vision, the real version stinks. That gap in quality between real and ideal causes the frustration.

As your enthusiasm continues to fade, you lose interest in the story and become bored with it. Your muse moves on to shinier objects and even the thought of continuing the story becomes too much to bear. You’ll do anything to avoid working on it, including the most hated household chores. In this way, boredom has fueled your self-doubt.

Now that Mr. Lopez has put his finger on a very real and universally experienced problem with the creative process, is there a solution? When these negative feelings overcome you, should you edit the draft you started with, or abandon it and start over?

I suspect it’s a very rare occasion when the right answer is to quit and start over. The real problem is, you are no longer in the right frame of mind to write well. What the situation calls for is a break. You should stop editing that story and do something else. Look at the story the next day with fresh eyes and a sunnier mood. You’ll see some things wrong with it, but just maybe the original enthusiasm will return, that zeal you felt when the story was just an idea.

Maybe you’ll decide the problem isn’t a gap between the ideal vision and the faulty reality. Perhaps the vision wasn’t so ideal after all. Don’t be afraid to alter it and work to capture the new vision. This isn’t starting over; this is making a change in light of a new realization.

Even though writers aren’t immune to the problem Robert Lopez identified, and self-doubt is bound to infect you at some point, you can pull yourself out of it. Most likely, you can salvage the draft you’re working on and won’t have to abandon it to start over.

That’s been my experience with the creative process of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

November 13, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Writing on the Move

What happens to stories when a writer moves? I mean when an author pulls up stakes and relocates to a different place. I’ve just done that and I’m wondering how it will affect my writing.

How much is a writer affected by locale? When you write in a room with a window, or even write outside, does that sliver of outside world influence you? When you go about your life—working, shopping, dining out—how much do the immediate surroundings and the local people seep into your fiction?

Assuming that effect is greater than zero, then something has to change when you box up your household goods, load a truck, and transport them to a different location. If your new place is far enough away, maybe several states away, a change in perspective occurs. Nature looks different in the new place. Local people talk differently and have different views.

Remember the famous New Yorker magazine cover from March 1976, showing the world from the perspective of someone living in New York City? Local streets and buildings were well defined, but things got vague and nebulous beyond that. It’s like that for all of us, isn’t it? We have a good handle on our nearby vicinity, but only a rough mental map of the rest of the world.

Now, suddenly, my idea of ‘near’ has undergone a disruption. I have to create a whole new mental map. As of now I must view the entire country from a different angle.

Thanks to modern instant communication, I won’t lose touch with my writer friends from my previous state. We’ll keep our critique group going. But I’ll likely establish new writer friends close to my new house. Assuming I can join a new critique group nearby, their critiques are likely to be different and to emphasize different things. They may well shape my writing, molding it into a slightly altered form.

Only time will tell if readers can discern any difference in my stories, or if I’ll detect any differences myself. I’d love to hear from other writers who have moved. What changes did you experience? Did the move help or harm your writing? Did the new setting for your real life become the new setting for your stories? Did your characters start talking differently?

Let me know. I’d love to hear about the impact of your move on your writing. For me, of course, some things won’t change. I’ll still come up with blog posts; I’ll still have the same electronic contact information; and I’ll still be—

Poseidon’s Scribe

October 20, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Retreating to Write

Would you go on a writer’s retreat? I’ve blogged about them before, but that post took the form of a warning to set reasonable expectations for what you’ll accomplish.

This weekend, while on a retreat, I’ll put on a more positive spin and discuss the benefits. I’ve retreated to an old house in a small rural town with three other writers—the members of my critique group. Here’s a view from the house’s balcony.

The house stands an hour and a half away from my home, where I usually write. The perspective, the atmosphere, the ambiance, is different here. I like to think it sends my mind down different grooves and lets my thoughts wander strange and unexplored byways.

There’s something invigorating about being among other writers, too. When not writing, we sit and talk. It’s fun to learn of their struggles and dreams, to celebrate their victories and commiserate over their defeats.

Non-writers have their own hobbies, of course, and join with like-minded hobbyists for weekends away. But their weekends are not like those of writers. If you could be here with us, you’d see us each in our own corner of the house, quietly busy with laptop or pen. At the moment, we’d rather talk to you, our readers, through our written words than to each other through spoken ones.

Does that sound odd? Pathetic? Rude? Introverted? Boring? Perhaps it would, to non-scribblers. To a writer, it is bliss. Here, for one glorious weekend, the urgencies of life do not interrupt, the excuses for not writing are absent, the schedule collapses to just one task.

There’s something too, about a change in perspective. It unshackles the mind. If you always write in the same chair, the same room, the same desk, is it any surprise that each of your stories seems like the others? Similar characters, similar plots, similar settings? For this reason, while writing at home, I sit in different chairs in different rooms. But this retreat, to a location I’ve never been, grants me a fresh outlook.

Retreats come in different flavors, of course. Some are more like writer workshops, with an expert providing occasional instruction. Some are solitary, where the writer goes unaccompanied to a remote locale. Each of these has pros and cons.

Your retreats need not be frequent, or expensive. My group goes only about every two to three years, and never to the same place twice. We’re mindful of costs and share the monetary burden. For us, the point is not to enjoy breathtaking scenery or to visit nearby attractions. All we need is quiet time. That’s worth emphasizing: Quiet. Time. Need ‘em both.

So, writer, consider a retreat. Withdraw from the daily demands of chores, work, and family. View things from a different angle for awhile. Socialize with other writers who strive, like you, to sharpen their scribbling skills. You might find you benefit as much from it as does—

Poseidon’s Scribe

August 18, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Better Writing through Exhaustion?

Are you more creative when sleepy? Is that the best time for writing rough drafts?

Some research suggests people may perform slightly better on “insight”-type tasks when they’re tired. Writing that first draft of your story might be an insight-type task. Perhaps, when fatigue sets in, you’re more willing to take a chance, to perform a mental leap, to connect disparate thoughts in a novel way.

This study, by Associate Professor Mareike Wieth of Albion College, examined the performance of over 400 students on both analytic and insight tasks. Analytic tasks were straightforward math and logic problems. Insight tasks were problems that seemed, at first, to lack sufficient information, but required a flash of intuitive thought to solve.

According to this article in The Atlantic, the students performed better on analytic tasks at their optimum time of day when properly rested. No surprise there.

However, in the insight tasks, they did 20% better at their non-optimal time of day.

As I understand it, the subjects for the study were college students, not a random sample of people. Also, the insight tasks did not include writing first drafts of fictional stories. I don’t want to infer too much from this study. As all scientists conclude after every study, “more research is required.”

But you’re not interested in research. You’re interested in becoming a better writer, the best writer you can be. When it comes to writing while tired, I suspect your mileage may vary.

It might be worth a few experiments. You could stay up past your normal bedtime and write some first drafts then. Or you could wake up early and scribble out a first draft before starting your morning routine.

Here I’ll add a cautionary note. Suppose experimentation reveals you do write better when tired. There is a long list of physiological effects of sleep deprivation, including depression, obesity, and increased risk of diabetes. Writing while fatigued is one thing, but be sure to get enough sleep.

Maybe you’ll find a different way to take advantage of those creative sparks you get while exhausted. Rather than sitting hunched over a keyboard, all you need is a notepad to jot down the insights as they flash by. I’ve blogged before about the tendency for a writer’s mind to solve problems while engaged in other activities, particularly mundane tasks. The notepad technique works then, too.

Well, <yawn> it’s getting late. It’s first-draft-writing time for—

Poseidon’s Scribe

August 11, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Dial Down the Flame

Some days it seems as if the world is over-stocked with idiots: editors who reject your brilliant manuscripts or insist on unreasonable alterations; reviewers too nit-witted to appreciate your subtle prose; and there’s always the never-ending parade of dolts in the non-writing world. Luckily, you have the Internet, where you can loose your torrent of fury upon them all with wordy weapons of mass wrath.

I’m here to suggest you not do that.

Every now and then an author gets mad at someone and blasts them with blistering bombast, in full view of the entire Interweb. Sometimes the author demonstrates considerable literary prowess in these attacks, but at other times, the author reveals only the limited, curse-studded vocabulary of an incensed sailor. I won’t link to any specific examples. They’re out there.

Social media makes this easy. You’re angry, so you lash out. Before you know it, you’ve dashed off a response to the most recent slight, a retort designed to make the perpetrator understand just how low on the human scale he or she rates. That’ll teach ‘em. And it makes you feel really good.

For a moment. Then you discover the quasi-Newtonian First Law of Internet Commotion: For every action, there’s an opposite reaction, but it ain’t necessarily equal. Your two-party disagreement has become public, and the public is livid about it—mostly livid about you.

Suddenly you’re the evil-hearted antagonist in this drama. People unknown to you have gathered to defend the original idiot, and cast you in the role of the caped and mustached scoundrel roping young women to railroad tracks.

They’re denouncing you. They’re calling you names. Worse, they’re refusing to buy your books, and encouraging others to boycott your bibliography, to catapult your catalog.

Well, you’ll show them. You’ll mock the mob; you’ll criticize the crowd; you’ll harangue the horde; you’ll…

At this point, a question occurs to you. You start to wonder if there had been some moment in this escalating stimulus/response/counter-response avalanche when you held a modicum of control over the situation. Was there a point before the full-fledged flame war, before the ruination of your writing reputation, where you could have prevented this outcome?

As it turns out, yes there was. It occurred back when you first publicly spewed venom at your initial, well-deserving target. If only you’d checked your fire then. If only you’d written your raging rejoinder and not hit ‘Send.’ If only you’d listened to that angel on your shoulder who’d quoted the Thumper Rule: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all.”

Yeah, that would have been a grand time to wedge in some sane contemplation between stimulus and instant response. You could have risen above the ruckus, been the better being, grasped the greater good, and suffered in silence knowing your suffering would cease.

Some of you are thinking, “Oh yeah? I’ve read some pretty scorching online rants written by famous authors, so it must be okay.”

The key word in your thought is ‘famous.’ Famous authors can get away with stuff like that. If they lose a few readers because of their boorish behavior, so what? They can count on countless fans to come to their defense and to buy up even more of their books.

But until you’re famous, you can’t afford to lose readers. You won’t find a flock of fans defending you. Instead, you’ll just be one more sad statistic in the growing archive of Authors Behaving Badly.

When that moment of decision arrives, remember to dial down the flame. Remember to listen to the angel on your shoulder. Remember Thumper. And remember the advice of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

July 14, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Outsmarting Your Inner Dinosaur

You’re working hard, but not making progress toward your real writing goals. You just can’t seem to get to those tasks you know will help you write better in the long term.

The problem: your inner dinosaur is holding you back. I’ll tell you the way to outsmart the beast.

I’ll credit Al Pittampalli with the idea, though he wasn’t specifically discussing fiction writing. I’ll first summarize the content of his article, but I encourage you to read it here. It’s well worth reading, and Mr. Pittampalli writes in a compelling style using a wonderful driving simile.

Here’s the short version. True productivity isn’t getting more tasks done; it’s getting the important tasks done. You’re spending time in “Maintenance Activities,” those normal actions that seem urgent. You should work on “Growth Activities,” those tasks activities that would truly help you in the long term (education, extended projects, self-improvement) but require some effort now.

The reason you don’t get to your Growth Activities is that the dinosaur part of your brain (the primitive limbic part) sees them as a threat to your survival and overrules the prefrontal cortex (the rational part). The dinosaur takes over right at the moment of decision. Simple willpower won’t defeat it because the dinosaur is clever and relentless.

Two ways to combat the dinosaur are (1) implementation intentions (tasks expressed as if-then statements, linked to situational cues), which outwit the dinosaur for a while, and (2) the Grit Protocol (commitment to another person that you intend to keep your implementation intentions—reinforced by brief daily meetings). These commitments give the dinosaur a greater fear than the Growth Activity—admitting failure to keep a promise.

How does this apply to writing fiction? Let’s say your long-term goal is some variant of this: to write better fiction that sells well. During your Grit Protocol meeting with your partner, you’ll state that goal aloud. You’ll then list some Growth Activities that would move you toward your goal. Examples of Growth Activities include:

Writing some number of words per day
Participating in Nanowrimo
Taking a course or workshop in fiction writing
Doing writing exercises (not necessarily stories) that focus on improving known weak points
Learning about marketing fiction
Reading one or more books about writing fiction
Reading some classic fiction or fiction in your genre and doing an analysis of why those books sell well.

So far, the dinosaur has prevented you from getting to tasks like these. The next step is to break your chosen growth activity into sub-tasks you could realistically accomplish in one day. Then turn those tasks into implementation intentions expressed as if-then statements with a triggering cue. Examples include:

If the kids are in bed, then I’ll spend an hour writing
If dinner is over, then I’ll write 1700 words without distraction toward my Nanowrimo goal
If it’s my lunch break, then I’ll research upcoming nearby writing courses and select the best one for me.
If I’m on my bus/subway/train commute, then I’ll write a setting description of that commute to improve my ability to set a scene.
If I’m drinking my morning coffee, then I’ll scan some blogs about marketing fiction and make a list of marketing actions I should take.
If I’ve just gotten into bed, then I’ll read another chapter of On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King.
If I’m just sitting down at my home computer, then I’ll make a list of the things I liked most about that novel I just finished reading, and identify techniques the author used to entice me.

When the triggering cue occurs, execute the task you’ve chosen and to which you’ve committed yourself. Then report that success to your partner at the next day’s meeting.

You’re on your way to accomplishing your most important writing goals by outsmarting your inner dinosaur. Now, excuse me. I’m being reminded it’s time to eat by the dinosaur inside—

Poseidon’s Scribe

May 4, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Your Passion for Writing

When I read the title of Stephanie Lee’s article in The New York Times, “Why ‘Find Your Passion’ is Such Terrible Advice,” I gaped in astonishment. Was she saying ‘Don’t Find Your Passion; Live a Passion-Free Life’? What kind of life is that?

Then I read her article, and I encourage you to do so as well. She’s really saying you should have the right attitude as you seek your life’s passion. Though she doesn’t provide alternative advice, I believe she would have you ‘find and develop your passion.’

The shorter version (“Find your passion”) may lead someone to believe it’s just about the search. “Ah, I’ve found something I enjoy. Now the gods will smile on me and I’ll simply display my in-born talent for the world to see.”

Lee’s article drew heavily from a study by P.A. O’Keefe, C.S. Dweck, and G.M. Walton called “Implicit Theories of Interest: Finding Your Passion or Developing It?” The study contrasted people with two views:

Fixed Mindset. These people are uninterested in things beyond their accustomed interests. When they do try new things, they don’t foresee difficulties and lose interest quickly when they encounter problems.
Growth Mindset. People with this viewpoint assume they must develop their passions over time. They know they’ll have to invest effort and overcome obstacles.

The study’s authors worried that if you tell someone with a fixed mindset to “find your passion,” that person will likely pour energy into a single interest and quit when the going gets tough. Moreover, the person may generalize that failure and conclude she or he won’t be good at anything.

Those with a fixed mindset are limiting themselves and missing an opportunity to enjoy some interest in life. The key, then, is to shake off the fixed mindset and adopt a growth mindset. But how?

First, I’d like to separate two things people often mix up. Let’s define passion as a strong interest in, even love of, some activity. Let’s define talent as a level of skill in performing some activity. This sets up the four possibilities illustrated in this table.

The key quadrants are 2 and 3. Quadrant 3 points the way out of the fixed mindset. By enjoying and celebrating the fruits of small achievements, you begin to associate favorable outcomes with effort and determination. Quadrant 2 is where all passions start. With any luck, your enjoyment of the activity will carry you through the inevitable difficulties and setbacks.

How does this apply to writing fiction? Like any other activity, some love doing it and some hate it. Some are skilled enough to produce good stories and others lack that talent. I suspect there are very few in Quadrant 3, who hate writing but somehow produce high-quality stories.

If you’re in Quadrant 2 and struggling to get to Quadrant 4, you’ll need that growth mindset to keep you plugging away, writing better stories and perfecting your craft.

If you suffer from the fixed mindset, think about the Quadrant 3 areas of your life. You do have a talent for some things, after all. You didn’t become good at them by accident. You worked at them and persevered. Now do the same thing by writing some fiction.

In summary, find and develop your passion for writing fiction. That’s the non-terrible advice of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

April 28, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

6 Ways Your Brain Kills Your Stories

How is it that your brain can think of wonderful stories, and then actively thwart your efforts to write them down? Let’s discuss some ways this happens, and what you can do about them.

In this post, I’m building on a previous (and inspiring) post by Courtney Seiter. Her article dealt with writing in general, but mine focuses on fiction writing.

When I think of an idea for a story, I jot down the idea in a file so I can write the story later. Over the years, the file has grown to over 160 ideas. However, I’ve written stories for only about 25 of these ideas, about 15%. Why not the other 85%? At one time, I was enthusiastic enough about all the ideas to write them down. What happened?

As I see it, one or more of the following six reasons explains my inaction. Many of these match the ones on Courtney Seiter’s list, but I’ve altered her list to conform to my experience. My methods of fixing the problems differ from hers to some extent.

Here are the ways my own brain works against me, and how I counter each of them:

It tells me the idea is no good. Maybe it once seemed good, but it no longer excites, or it’s obsolete, or there’s too little there from which to build a story. Sometimes my brain is right about that. When it’s not, the cure is to think more deeply about the idea, to brainstorm and mind-map, and to flesh it out.
It tells me the story is too hard to write. This most often occurs with stories worthy of being novels. It’s true that a novel is a bigger project than a short story. However, you don’t tackle big projects by worrying about how hard they are. You break them down into bite-sized tasks, and go after the tasks, one by one.
It tells me I’m too busy with other work. There will always be other things to do, so this ever-present excuse can prevent you from writing anything. The cure is to decide how important the story is to you. Can you adjust your priorities? Can you exercise better time management?
It gets distracted. Really, brain? This is your most pitiful excuse of all. My cure for this is to write a first draft with only a pad of paper, no computer. That helps eliminate many distractions. Setting a deadline—even an artificial one—can help me focus as well.
It tells me the story idea is outside my lane, and someone else should write it. My muse has come up with some crazy ideas, many of them far outside my usual genres. Sometimes I’ve given such ideas to other writer friends for whom the story would be a better fit. Often I’ve gone ahead, written the story, and hoped for the best.
It’s afraid. As Courtney Seiter observed, this is the biggest reason of all. It’s the root cause of the previous five reasons. There’s no sure-fire cure for this. I have to ask myself why I’m afraid, and look for ways to counter that cause. Often this involves asking myself, “What if I weren’t afraid? How would I tackle this?” Then I mind-map ideas about how I’d go about it.

Next time your brain tries to kill one of your stories, try these techniques. They’ve worked for the brain of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

February 17, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

6 Reasons Your Story Stinks

That story idea was so good, wasn’t it? While it remained an idea, it radiated beams of perfection across your mind. It screamed “Classic!”

Then you wrote it down. Now it doesn’t look so good. In fact, it stinks.

How could the same story that seemed so ideal when it sat upon a pedestal within your bran, end up so pathetic when you wrote it down?

Here are some reasons for that large ideal/real gap, and what to do about it:

You only completed a first draft. There’s no reason to expect your first draft to be good. You wrote it in a rush, not wanting to lose sight of the broad outlines of the story idea in your mind.
Solution: Keep editing the story. In subsequent drafts, it will approach closer to the ideal version.

The emotions faded. You felt some powerful emotions while thinking about the story. Somehow, during the writing process, those passions abated. Now the real manuscript lacks the fire of the mental one.
Solution: Put away the manuscript. Just think about the story again and try to recapture the feelings you had when you first thought of it. If you can do that, you may discover ways to improve the real version.

You got sidetracked. While writing down your story, you thought of some new characters, or a different setting, or a new subplot or plot twist. Whichever it is, that marked a deviation from the ideal story residing in your mind.
Solution: You’ve got a decision to make. Does the deviation make the story worse, or better? If worse, delete it. If better, keep it.

A character demanded a bigger role. Somehow, during the writing process, one of the characters started stealing the show. That character developed a deeper personality and started speaking unimagined lines and taking unforeseen actions.
Solution: As with the previous problem, you’re facing a decision. Think in terms of the story. Does this character’s expanded role improve the story or not? If so, keep that character as is. If not, you can either reduce the character’s part or substitute a different character. (Consider using that scene-stealing character in a different story.)

That mental story only seemed ideal. You discovered some things while writing the story. That story idea contained some serious flaws, like plot holes, actions without motivations, unnecessarily complex solutions to problems, or loose ends. Sometimes an idea only seems good until it sees the light of day.
Solution: If you fixed the problem while writing the story, go with the one you wrote. If you got stuck partway through, shelve the story for a while. Someday, your muse may suggest a revised idea you can work with.

Your ideal is unattainable in reality. That mental version of the story is so clear, so perfect, but you just can’t match it in the real manuscript. You’ve been through several drafts now, each one better than the last, but it still doesn’t quite measure up.
Solution: You can be like Leonardo da Vinci if you want, and dabble with your Mona Lisa for over a decade, making little improvements here and there. But consider declaring that story good enough and start writing another one.

We all struggle with the gap in quality between the ideals in our mind and the flawed reality of our tangible creations. It’s part of the human condition for our mental reach to exceed our physical grasp. Perhaps the Mona Lisa never matched da Vinci’s idea of her, but his painting still leaves most of us in awe.

Now that I read back over it, this blog post falls far short of the one imagined by—

Poseidon’s Scribe

January 13, 2019Poseidon's ScribePermalink

Author Suicides

Writers, it’s difficult, but we have to talk about this. The recent celebrity suicides of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade have raised awareness of the general suicide problem. However, writers may be particularly at risk.

A study released in March 2017 by the UK’s Office for National Statistics reported a higher risk of suicide “among those working in artistic, literary and media occupations.” [My emphasis added.]

It didn’t take long for me to compile my own partial list of fiction authors who have committed suicide (in order of birth date):

Virginia Woolf – (1882-1941, age 59)
L.M. Montgomery – (1884-1942, age 67)
Ryunosuke Akutagawa – (1892-1927, age 35)
Yasunari Kawabata – (1899-1972, age 72)
Ernest Hemingway – (1899-1961, age 61)
Sándor Márai – (1900-1989, age 88)
Karin Boye – (1900 – 1941, age 40)
Arthur Koestler – (1905-1983, age 77)
Klaus Mann – (1906-1949, age 42)
Osamu Dazai (1909-1948, age 38)
Primo Levi – (1919-1987, age 67)
Walter M. Miller Jr.– (1923-1996, age 72)
Yukio Mishima – (1925-1970, age 45)
Sylvia Plath – (1932-1963, age 30)
Jerzy Kosinski – (1933-1991, age 57)
Richard Brautigan (1935-1984, age 49)
Hunter S. Thompson – (1937-2005, age 67)
John Kennedy Toole – (1937-1969, age 31)
Thomas Disch – (1940-2008, age 68)
David Foster Wallace – (1962-2008, age 46)
Ned Vizzini – (1981-2013, age 32)

For three of these (Kawabata, Mann, and Levi), the suicide explanation remains in doubt. I feel compelled to point out that three other authors on this list (Boye, Miller, and Disch) wrote Science Fiction, my chosen genre.

In reading articles about these authors, it’s significant how many articles mention the word “depression.”

Following any suicide, we naturally seek a reason, an explanation, an answer to “why?” Some authors left notes attempting to rationalize their choice, but often these only leave us with more questions.

It’s probably unfair to generalize about such a personal choice, an option chosen based on necessarily specific reasons. Still, it’s natural to wonder if there are aspects of writing fiction that increase suicide risk. Here are my (unscientific and unsupported) speculations on that:

Writing is solitary. Writers tend to be less social and have fewer contacts with friends who might talk them out of suicide.
Writers explore their inner feelings, and those of their characters. Such deep introspection can lead to depression and suicide.
Writers think more about death and suffering than most people do. All fiction involves conflict, and writers must put their characters through pain, and, in some cases, death.
Feedback can depress writers. Authors offer their cherished work to the entre world, and hope for a positive reaction. If the public ignores their stories or reviewers lambast them, authors often take it personally.

If you’re a writer (or anyone) contemplating suicide, please, please, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), or go to their website.

Perhaps you know a writer (or, again, anyone) who may be at risk of suicide. There’s a Twitter hashtag devoted to this: #BeThe1To. Here are the 5 Action Steps you can take to help your friend: