I wrote this post two weeks ago but, in the spirit of the lesson learned within, decided to save it till now.

Quick history lesson: From Konstantin Stanislavski, who wanted actors to search for “theatrical truth” to the Group Theatre in NYC, much of modern day acting technique stems.  It breaks down into two very closely linked techniques (which in truth are not narrow but encompass many, many variations), both of which fall under the category of Method acting.

In general, method acting is usually defined as drawing upon one’s own emotions and experiences to portray a character. But there are also the variations of Sanford Meisner, Stella Adler, Uta Hagan, in which actors use “as ifs” and imagination to create truths.

I had an acting teacher who kept reiterating that acting must be play.  And play cannot reliably happen when drawing upon real events.  And yet at the same time, you have to rely upon what you know and understand about the world to make your acting real. It was a very fine line that seemed confusing to me for the longest time.  But I never hoped to be a professional actor, and I never tried to perfect the art.

The reason I find myself unable to write contemporary romance is that I can never distance myself enough to make it play.  And if you look at the literary tradition, so many authors were/are drunkards and dissipated, writing their great work out of the pain.

So here I am as a writer and I am finding that the lesson is the same.  Make it play.  In a sense all writing is autobiographical and biographical, drawn from our perspective, the way we as humans have experienced the world.  In On These Silken Sheets, the motivations and character development might have come from myself or people I knew, but the stories and circumstances were completely in the realm of play.  In a manuscript I recently finished, there were a few slightly more autobiographical moments I snuck in, but safely distanced from when they actually happened.  And reworked, retooled, as to be almost unrecognizable.

Well, ten weeks ago I learned I was pregnant.  A whole new fun world.  I had just finished a big project.  Revised another one.  I had nothing urgent to do but catch up on my reading and start the nesting process.  All my creativity was focused on what was inside me, not on some ineffable story about fake people.

But then, a few events came together. I bled for three weeks and the doctor told me there is a heartbeat but it’s early yet.  What will be, will be, and it very well may be fine.  Then my husband asked why so many romance books ended on the wedding as the happily ever after, which is a sentiment I’ve seen echoed before many times.  And an idea struck me, about a married couple in the Regency period.  I put a bunch of autobiographical details into it thinking the story distanced enough from my real life, that it was play and it was fun.  I was doing something different from what I was used to and yet writing about stuff I knew.

Then, we lost the baby.

And it’s not play.

But I’m a writer.  And the story I intended to tell is a good one.  It doesn’t have a miscarriage in it.  It has HEAs all around.  It’s about hope and love and all the reasons we read romance.  So this writer’s work will be to push aside the reality of my own experience, find the essential truths I wish to tell, and jump into the realm of play.

So the point of this post is to say, there is a danger to writing about something too close to your real life. It might endanger your career as a working writer, leaving you to the whims of your unreliable emotions.  And that isn’t just writer’s block, it’s writer’s hell.