Why am I Not a Better Writer?

 No, this is not another of those whiny blogs about why I don’t sell more or Imposter Syndrome. This is a clear-eyed look at why I’m not a better writer. Or as good as I’d like to be, an examination all writers should make from time to time.

 

I know I write well. My range that the gamut from crime (police procedural) to crime (private investigator), but I am comfortable with my ability within that niche. I have an ear for dialog, create plots that make sense without being too obvious, and can be as funny as I need to be. I have developed a voice that well suits the kinds of stories I write.

 

So what is it I think I should be doing better, and why am I not doing it?

 

My background doesn’t help. Not that I was deprived of the things that make for a good writer. There were always plenty of books around the house, the high school library was well-stocked, and I was always encouraged to read, which I did voraciously.

 

It’s everything else. I grew up about twenty miles along the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh where the suburbs give way to the country. I guess demographers would call it the exurbs. My town was almost all white, heavily ethnic, and predominantly working class. I spent my summers playing ball almost every day with a crew that ebbed and flowed, but consisted of about a dozen kids; we could almost always find enough to get a game going.

 

We had the usual disagreements, but no one was beating hell out of anyone else, either. The best field for Whiffle ball was our backyard, which my mother loved, as she rarely had to worry about where my brother and I were or what we were up to; all she had to do was look out the bathroom window. She’d bring us cold drinks and occasionally cookies.

 

As an adult I dated a woman who said I grew up in the Cleaver family. That’s not accurate – things weren’t that insipid – but it’s close enough. My parents were social drinkers, and rarely drank much even then. My brother and I grew up at the tail end of the era of corporal punishment; neither of us was abused, either physically or emotionally, nor did we live in fear of either parent.

 

There were disagreements -  we’re talking about four intelligent, strong-willed people living in a small one-story house together for fifteen years before I left for college – but things blew over quickly. My brother and I are close, and we both remained close with our parents until they died on us.

 

The experiences I gained about the kinds of conflict that drives a story came after I left home, became an adult, and had to interact with the kinds of assholes everyone else gets to know early on. Sure, that’s been forty-some years now, but I was already a grown-ass man; these were not my formative years. The imprint is not as strong.

 

Would I trade my childhood to be a better writer? Not on your life.

 

My plots are a little linear, which is probably because I’m not as  right-brained as most writers. It’s close – I took a test once that came out 52 – 48 – but I like to know things are under control in my life. I don’t have to be the one who is in control,  but I need to know the situation is under control. Those two elements make it hard for me to come up with plot twist out of left field, no matter how well prepared.

 

I am also firmly rooted in the reality of what I can see, hear, otherwise sense, or can verify. My life has improved since I made a conscious decision many years ago to treat others better, so there’s a nagging feeling karma may have something going for it, but I am not at all a spiritual person. I like people to have reasons for what they do, even though I know they they don’t always. That’s not such a bad thing, except I write about the kinds of people Doctor Phil makes a living asking “Whut were you thanking?”

 

I’m working on it. I was going to write today about how the outline for the next Forte book came together, but I decided a couple of days ago it’s not as together as I thought it was; it needs a more of people doing things I wouldn’t do.

 

Stephen Johnson wrote a wonderful book titled, Farsighted: How We Make the Decisions That Matter the Most. A key point is that decision scholars have discovered the best and most durable decisions are made by groups with as much diversity as can be gained, for one simple reason:

 

You can’t imagine what you can’t imagine.

 

And that simple sentence, more than anything, is why I’m not a better writer.

 

But I’m working on it.