PureBlogging

As a writer, you’ve always got to be ready to learn. Because writing lessons can strike at strange times, in strange places.

Like at two in the morning when you’re trying to stare down a guy who’s got six inches and fifty pounds on you, all while wearing nothing but a pair of Snoopy-themed boxer shorts and a t-shirt that reads “I (heart) Puddn.”

But I should start at the beginning.

A couple of nights ago my girlfriend and I turned in for the night only to hear our downstairs neighbor’s booming voice as he talked on the phone.

He does this from time to time, talking on the phone for upwards of three or four hours, always well past 2:00 AM. It doesn’t happen often — maybe twice a month — but it’s consistently annoying. And while I don’t begrudge anyone the right to keep unusual hours, the overall rule is simple: Shut the heck up between midnight and 8 AM.

So finally I went downstairs to talk to the guy (we’ll call him “Bellows von Shoutington”). I threw a shirt on so I wouldn’t look totally outlandish. Unfortunately it was a shirt my girlfriend had had made for me a few years ago. (”Puddn” is a term of endearment she and I use to describe a very specific set of activities. I won’t get into it here.)

I was polite but firm. I told Mr. von Shoutington I could hear every word of his conversation even though we had two fans on (it was a hot night). I asked if he could please shut his window while he was on the phone. There’s no chance we’d be able to hear him through the floor, since our building is old and well constructed. Shutting his window was really all he needed to do.

Of course, this was just too much for Mr. von Shoutington. He told me the window was shut, and that he should be the one complaining, because of all the constant stomping around he hears coming from our apartment. He made it very clear that the problem was mine.

So I gave him a slow, measured stare, and said: “OK, whatever. But right now, could you just keep it down, please?”

I don’t know what you’re like, but I’m not the world’s most confrontational guy. I’m no doormat, but looking someone directly in the eye and making a demand, or even a firm request, isn’t so easy. Particularly when you’re wearing Snoopy underwear and a shirt advertising the snoogy woogy language you use with your sweetie.

Good writing is a lot like staring down someone bigger than you while wearing silly clothes. If you’re not laying it all out on the line, If you’re not, as Walter Smith said, sitting down at a typewriter and opening up a vein, if you’re not taking the risk of looking like a complete sod, then you’re not doing your best.

And looking your reader in the eye is a good way of testing your writing out.

Whatever you write, take a look at it and think to yourself: Am I really looking my reader in the eye with this? Could I look someone in the eye and say what I’m writing?

As writers, it’s our job to engage our readers on the most basic emotional levels. It’s our job to make them understand just how serious we are about what we’re saying. It’s our job to look them in the eye. The more scared you are to say it — and the more scared you’d be to say it while looking someone directly in the eye — the more you can do with it on the page.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say to Mr. von Shoutington, but I didn’t say them — partially because they were irrelevant, but partially because I just didn’t have the guts to look him in the eye. Things like “God, but you stink! What did you do today, smoke every damp cigarette butt you managed to find on the ground? You smell like French cinema in the 60s!” Or, “Well, I may stomp around a lot, but you look like a damn cartoon rat. What’s up with that nose of yours anyway? Does it always twitch like that, or just when there’s a triangular wedge of Swiss cheese nearby?” I’d argue that the humor value of those lines comes from their inappropriateness. It’d be almost impossible to look someone in the eye and deliver one of those.

Later, when I got back up to bed, I heard the sound of a window sliding shut from just below us. He hadn’t told the truth about his window being shut — yet he still felt compelled to shut it. That’s what looking someone in the eye can do.

When you’re writing, if you’re not terrified on some level, you’re not doing it right.