“The Skelton of a Writer” — blog 1.1

 How much of a writer’s soul is explicit in their work?

Dearest writers,

This will be my first installment of my blog – little essays that I want to share with you every month. To be perfectly candid, I have actually procrastinated writing to you (wow, the story of every writer ever). Talking about writing is so easy as I do, quite comfortably (perhaps a little too much so) in my Podcast (Writing with Ana Neu). However, writing about writing is quite difficult. It becomes so much more intentional and philosophical and – for lack of better word – serious. Blegh. I usually leave all that serious stuff to my tedious law essays that I ardently despise to write. Though I know this blog is to talk about fun serious things, which I know I will certainly adore. Perhaps all this rambling for an excuse has me arrived at the truth – starting the first blog? Not only serious. No. Very, very scary. In the end my dear humble writers, I found myself simply stumped on what to write about.

So, like many baffled writers I turned to our holy grail – Pinterest – as if something could prompt me toward a more productive direction. And to my pleasant surprise, it prompted a thought. A thought yielding to skeletons and moons.

My Pinterest homepage is currently filled with medieval and fantastical images – due to my current secret fantasy project (of which, no, I will not yet talk about!) – and I found this image that caught my eye. It was a dark silhouette reaching for the moon. The moon stood out, stark, against the black-ash sky. And it was the character’s silhouette that particularly spurred a thought. And inkling of a metaphor.

ana neu’s current pinterest home ^

Like many writers, I find great happiness in understanding and explaining things through metaphors. And dear writers, I must warn you, that sometimes my mind is fickle and either cannot explain the said metaphor thoroughly or the metaphor itself is unexplainable due to its foundational flaws (they become metaphors only my erratic writer-mind can make sense of). So, please. Bear with me.

But the character in the image, I immediately prescribed to be the ‘creator’ – the ‘writer’. The moon I called their soul, and the silhouette became their story. It is their soul that outlines the story – that pretty, white skeleton of a person contours the creator – the writer. Now, I understand where this is becoming sillier and more abstract. However, all this moon and skeleton talk provoked the beginning of a question. And that question is: How much of a writer is their work?

I have often wondered, as I read my favorite author’s works, how much I can correlate their work with their soul. It seems a futile question. You may be thinking, ‘Of course it is their soul!’ or ‘What else is a reflection of an author’s soul if not their book’. But it still begs another question – of whether this ‘soul sharing’ is completely at their discretion. How much ‘soul’ – if any – will they show in the novel? Do they have a choice?

The reason why I ask these seemingly redundant questions is because I have always talked about my writing as an ancient thing. I have described myself almost as a ‘predecessor’ to the stories I have set forth to write. Strangely, I have little discretion over what will happen, who will die or even what the story says. Truly I tell you – I do not know what my stories mean until I write the last sentence! It’s a disturbing experience – an almost spiritual one. The stories I write come from within me – as if they have already been written – and I am but a pen to the world’s paper to write them. And of course, as I write the end, I understand that…these stories are mine. That there is so much of my soul tethered to it. I didn’t realize as I wrote, but in one way of another – somehow – in this story there is me at its center. And it’s sobering. Discomforting. I try very hard to ignore it.

I do not know whether any other writers have the same experience with writing. It’s the same way I write my poetry – something is wrong with me, but I do not know what until I write a poem numbly and read it over. It’s usually very specific and cutting. But honest too. You might think it bizarre. The ‘numb writing’ and all. But it’s how I create my stories and thus, understand myself and what I want to say.

As I have foreshadowed, because of this revelation, writing has become both humbling and disturbing. I see this with my up-coming debut novel, Ghostcide, of which follows a 17-year-old girl who meets, and later befriends, 4 ghost boys. I thought it was a harmless little story, until I began unpacking the characters and writing that ending (do not ask me about it). Its those moments where you go ‘Oh.’ And I have those moments more and more.

So, for me, it is not up for my discretion to choose whether I show my ‘soul’ in my work. I do agree that it is an inevitable thing. You write what you are, and you probably do it subconsciously, without even realizing it. And that kinda freaks me out. Of course there are characters in your story you don’t quite identify with or topics you have little connection to, but just as the silhouette in that image, the skeleton of a writer will always show against her crescent soul.

How much of a writer is their work? Everything. All of it. Beginning and end. I think, even just a little bit, it foretells our deepest frustrations and wishes and beliefs – things we might not even realize ourselves. It’s the reason why I think writing, at the end of the day, is sacred. Don’t get me wrong, you do need to plot and flesh out organs of the story but the message the merge of the plot beats, the characters, the world – it all creates a pretty, skeletal outline. Harsh bones protruding out. Honesty. The stark white. Authenticity.

It’s moments like these when I again, think of Kafka – his loneliness and self-sabotaging belief that his justice is out of reach. That he a is bug unable to get out of bed (Metamorphosis). That he is a Castle inspector unable to reach the Castle (The Castle). That he is a man before a locked door in a world of locked doors, one following the other (The Trial). The stories we write morph into manifestations – mirrors – of ourselves. Things we don’t want to see. Things we don’t even know could have existed within us.

Dear writers, to get ever more wish washy, I must beg you – reflect upon your work. See what parts of you are between each line. What is your book trying to tell you? To tell about you. What shape is your skeleton?

Often, I find myself paranoid that others will see what I see in my work – its pleasant or even sickening relation to me. They may ponder and they may guess, but stories are secrets. And only you know all of them. So, comfort yourself, find solace. I think the existence of the story in itself, is comforting. I think it’s truly beautiful, surrendering to your work like that. And better yet, sharing it with others.

I don’t mean to scare you, but to encourage you. I don’t mean to claim that everything a writer writes reflects their soul. But promise me you will not write a husk of a story. I doubt any writer will, or ever has. Again, I believe, to some extent, it’s inevitable – the bizarre, soul translating. The skeleton outline. And the soul that allows its silhouette.

Dear writers, thank you for reading up to this point and trying to dissect my ramblings. I tried my best to write something of interest. The spirituality of a writer fascinates me profoundly and I’m glad I was able to muse, just a little bit. And hey, lesson is learned! Pinterest is great for getting ideas about writing about writing. Ha -! But I truly hope your soul – *ahem* – your story is doing well. Whatever project you’re working on – I’m sure it is to become a lovely skeleton.

-       Your writer friend, Ana Neu.