There are a lot of rules when it comes to writing. Things like, show don’t tell; don’t write a prologue; and get rid of adverbs are just a few of the fun ones we’re bound to beat our heads against a wall about at some point or another.
But the one that gave me the biggest headache had to be this one:
Write what you know.
The first time I heard this nugget in Dr. Raymond’s creative writing class at Stetson a billion years ago, it struck me as ridiculous. It’s called fiction. By its very definition, it is not what I know.
Did Anne Rice know what it was like to be a vampire? Possibly, but unlikely. Was Lee Child a badass ex-MP who went around fighting the powerful? Nope.
It took decades and a lot of grumbling to figure out the real meaning for me was to write the feelings I know. The reasons why characters behave the way they do.
And while I haven’t been an artist, a billionaire playboy, an astronomy professor, or the president—I have been wounded. I’ve lost. I’ve won. I’ve been gutted over grief. I’ve had dreams slip away. I’ve had my heart broken. And I’ve moved on despite it all.
This is what creates a story people stay up late reading because they connect with and feel right along with the characters. It gives them a stake in what happens.
So I guess I’ll keep writing what I know—the heart of the story—because that’s where the real magic happens.
jensinclairwrites.com 
Hit the nail right on the head! Sure, this advice might apply to nonfiction, but arguably the point of fiction is to explore the *unknown*
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