Blaise Cendrars 1887–1961

“ARE YOU THE HERO?” I feel like every author must get this one from time to time. Some more than others, of course. The slew of novels—both good and totally fucking horrid—based on a down and out writer who happens to be kinda nebbishy, yet sexually irresistible. They are legion.

But even when you’re not writing jerk-off wish fulfillment porn, the question still pops up. The first book I wrote did, in fact, center on a guy that was probably just a bit too much like me on the surface. It was the first full-length thing I ever wrote and that conceit is certainly among its plentiful flaws. At least he wasn’t a writer.

So okay, that guy with the tattoos and the smirk was me. But you know what? So was the one-legged porn actress, and the sociopathic finance guy, and the loan shark. Everybody in that story was me. I don’t think it’s something that could be avoided. Or at least I don’t think it’s something that should be avoided, because the other option is far worse.

If I’m writing about a neurotic pre-teen, or an agoraphobic shut-in, or a bloodthirsty axe-maniac, it doesn’t matter. Those characters are still going to carry some part of me. They are going to appear as a result of me putting myself into their position as much as I possibly can.

As far as I’m concerned, writing resembles method acting quite a bit in that regard. The believability of your characters has a lot to do with how much you can empathize with them. Otherwise, you’re left with cardboard cutouts, props for the protagonist.

To heavily paraphrase a Blaise Cendrars interview that I cannot seem to find online:

“All anybody can write about is man. In fiction there is only one man and he is the author. So that’s what I write about.”

Pronouns aside (this was the 50s), it’s a valid point. Also note that Blaise Cendrars once wrote a book, Moravagine, whose title translates to “Death Vaginas” and whose protagonist is a homicidal anarchist dwarf.

The protagonist of the serial novel that I’m planning out right now is a socially awkward girl. And she’s me, too.

So yeah, the hero is me. So is the villain. Hell, the fucking ROCKS are me. It’s my story.