Meet Me at the Breaking Place

“This book is incredible. You absolutely have to read it.”

Ah, these words. More than mere validation for authors who spend so much time in uncertain solitude, they are payment and a generous tip for all the pain endured on the road from first thought to last word. They are the perfect reward.

“It’s a good book.”

“A great read.”

“So well-written.”

These are fine words, too. Encouraging words. We’ll take them above silence any day. But they fall far short of “you have to read this,” which, when expanded to its original size, looks something like this: “If you don’t read this book, you won’t merely have missed out on a good story, you’ll have missed out on discovering something else far more significant – yourself.”

That’s the magic of “you have to read this” stories. They don’t just take readers on a ride, though they can. They don’t just provide an escape, though they often do. The “you have to read this” stories do something more: they reveal truth. Not just any truth, they reveal the reader’s truth. They show the reader something of herself. Something that helps her to feel like she is seen and known.

And perhaps most importantly, they remind the reader that she is not so alone.

These stories meet the reader right where she breaks and burrow into the cracks there. They grow roots in a character’s heartache that resembles her own. In deep longing that vibrates at the same frequency as hers. In a familiar fear. A familiar expectation. A familiar desire.

The breaking place is where characters become more than a writer’s fiction. It’s the place where the reader realizes the story isn’t about someone like her, it’s about her.

So how do you create this breaking place? Can you manufacture it? Well, writing is, in a purely functional sense, manufacturing. It’s putting words together in a certain order toward a certain end. But no, you don’t manufacture a breaking place. The breaking place comes from your story. It starts as your heartache. Your fear. Your desire.

This is why writing well is so difficult. First you have to know your own story. And you have to be honest about that story. Then you have to soak your fictional characters in your truth until it becomes their own.

But it’s worth the pain, writer friends. When a reader says about your book, “you have to read this,” they’re not just recommending a good story, they’re saying, “I’m in this book. By some strange magic, I’m right here on the page. See me. Know me.”

And so it comes back to you: the perfect reward. Because, of course you see them. Of course you know them.

They are you.

And suddenly, right there in the midst of your uncertain solitude, you realize another truth: you are not so alone either.

Payment and a generous tip.

 

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, you either wrote something or you didn’t.

Maybe it was a banner day, when the stars all aligned and the metaphors all sang and the characters all looked up from the page to offer their thanks for three dimensions instead of two, for flesh and bone and blood and tears, for life itself, even though some of them will be dead by page 243. Especially because of that.

Maybe it was a prolific day, a day of ten thousand perfect words, or ten thousand shitty words. A marathon that left you sweaty and exhausted and finger-cramped and grateful and utterly bewildered by your apparent good fortune.

Maybe it was a puzzle-working day. A battle royale with an impossible scene that has held you hostage for weeks. And maybe you finally solved it. Or maybe it finally solved you. Defeat and delete.

Perhaps it was a forgettable day. The kind that dissolves into a thousand others like it. Your words didn’t sing. They didn’t shout. They didn’t even whisper. They just filled the space like gray clouds in a gray sky.

Maybe you spent the day in Catatonia, staring at the laptop like a powerless stupor-man. Empty. Lost. Wordless. The blank page mirroring your blank expression and somehow turning it into a sneer.

Maybe you walked by the laptop a hundred times. On your way to breakfast. On your way to get the kids ready for school. On your way to work. On your way to make dinner. On your way to clean up that mess in the bathroom. On your way to bed. Maybe you didn’t type a single word.

Maybe you wrote exactly twenty-seven words.

Maybe you deleted a chapter. Or two. Or three. Or all of them.

Maybe you wanted to quit. Maybe you did quit.

Maybe your computer died and you lost everything.

Maybe you started a new book.

Or maybe you typed “The End.”

At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what kind of a day it was.

Because at the end of the day you’re still a writer. And there’s another day waiting…at the end of the day.