Why Do I Write?

 Two things seen on Facebook:

 

At a recent conference I was asked “Why do you write?”

 

I answered: “I do horrible things to my characters, so I don’t do them to people in real life.”

 

They gave me the strangest look.

 

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The art of writing fiction is to sail as dangerously close to the truth as possible without sinking the ship.

--Kinky Friedman

 

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Life is full of frustrations and irritants. Not just political. Exhibition driving has become a problem in my area, as has porch pirating. There isn’t much an individual can do about either. Putting up with them as unavoidable isn’t a solution, just an accommodation that was imposed rather than reached.

 

So what to do?

 

A future Nick Forte book – whether it’s the one after the work in progress or one more down the road has yet to be decided – will allow Forte to deal with both exhibition drivers and porch pirates. Forte is my alter ego – the man I’m afraid I would be under different circumstances -  and, as author, I can ensure the consequences he faces are not too draconian. It will be a while before I write that book, but the ideas come unbidden to my thoughts from time to time and refining Forte’s “solution” to each is a great comfort to me, even though I’m 99% sure I would never do such things myself. (Note: If I ever happen onto a porch pirate and have a softball bat to hand, he’d better be a lot faster than I am.)

 

As for Kinky’s comment, I find myself moving more in that direction all the time.

 

In Bad Samaritan, Forte engages with malignant men’s rights activists.

In White Out, Penns River combats an attempt to be overrun by white supremacists.

In Off the Books, Forte goes up against human traffickers.

 

I’ve also begun to choose villains’ names from real life. The most violent whitey in White Out is named Wallace Thurmond as a “tribute” to two prominent racists of my youth, George Wallace and Strom Thurmond.

 

A corrupt police officer in Off the Books is named for a particularly distasteful member of the Trump administration. The main baddie’s name is a play on the word “trump.”

 

The clueless, selfish, piece of shit responsible for the problems in the WIP had his name chosen by combining the middle name and a corruption of the last name of a sports team owner with a particularly unsavory reputation.

 

I already have a few more picked out along these lines for future projects.

 

The rich do not fare well in my books. Never have, even less so more recently as I become aware of the lengths the superrich are willing to go to lower the quality of life for everyone else. My go-to attitude embodies what Dennis Lehane once said when asked why he doesn’t write about rich people: I don’t give a fuck about them.

 

All of the above are fringe benefits of writing, though they can also act as prods. After more than twenty years of writing for publication with limited success, I have come to realize the real reason I write runs parallel to an answer I give The Beloved Spouse™ from time to time.

 

TBS: Why don’t you like broccoli? (Brussels sprouts, spinach, lima beans, etc.)

Me: Because it tastes like ass.

 

Which leads to why I like the foods I do like: because I like them. I don’t need a reason.

 

And that’s why I write. I enjoy the hell out of it. Sure, it can be frustrating, but I am rarely more content than when working out how to keep a conversation moving, describing a location or action, or refining what I’ve already written into something people might want to read.

 

And that’s all the reason I need.