Tutorial: How to Turn People You Hate Into Fictional Characters

Readers often want to know if the characters in my stories are based on real people, and the answer to that question is—duh!

One of the most rewarding things about being a fiction writer is that you can turn people you hate into characters, then torment them in all kinds of painful and humiliating ways. To get away with this, all you have to do is insert a little disclaimer stating that the book is a work of “fiction,” and that any similarities with people living or dead are “purely coincidental.” That’s it, and then you’re legally free to lay waste to anyone and everyone who has ever crossed you.

Besides being therapeutic and a heckuva lot of fun, basing characters on real people you hate adds a degree of authenticity that might otherwise be missing from your work. The key to success in this area of fiction writing is in disguising the “true” identity of the character so thinly that if the real person upon which the character is based (or anyone who knows them) reads the book, they will immediately recognize you are writing about them.

Suppose you have a psychotic ex-girlfriend name Stacy who bangs on your door at two in the morning whenever she goes off her meds. In fiction, a batshit she-witch like Stacy offers a perfect opportunity to introduce a character named “Stacia” who does the same thing, but who peeks through the window and sees the fictional you with another woman, then flings herself into traffic, whereupon it is discovered that, as you always suspected, Stacia was never human at all—she was an evil android sent by aliens to destroy your life.

If you’ve done your job right, the real-life Stacy should be furious when she reads this—so mad that she calls her lawyer to find out if she can sue you for defamation of her so-called “character.” But the law is on your side. Her lawyer will advise her that no, she can’t sue, because it’s a work of “fiction.” Ha! The character in the story that looks and acts like her isn’t really her, he’ll say, so don’t take it so personally.

Oh, but she will take it personally—very personally—and that is the joy of it.

Of course, writers rarely get the satisfaction of being in the room when the subject of their hatred realizes that their ex-boyfriend has totally won, hands down, and there’s nothing they can do. In order to see the anger swell in their eyes and hear the howls of protest as they hurl your book across the room, you have to be outside, nearby, with a good set of binoculars.

If you don’t have a decent set of binos, of course, you must imagine the anguish you’ve caused. But that’s okay too, because you’re a fiction writer, and using your imagination is what you’re good at. Stacy can’t even keep her medications straight, which is why you broke up with her in the first place. She did give you the idea for “Stacia,” though, so the relationship wasn’t a total loss.

Anyway, she’s not your problem anymore—she’s just a character in one of your stories. To hell with her. You got the last laugh, and that’s all that matters. She can’t touch you, because you write “fiction,” so nothing you write is actually “true,”—it just feels like it, to her—and that’s what really matters.

Facing Your Fears is the Worst Idea Ever

Common psychological wisdom suggests that in order to grow as human beings and overcome life’s obstacles, we should all face our fears—and presto, our fears will disappear.

Speaking from bitter experience, I can tell you this is a horrible idea, and it does not work. I found this out the hard way one day when, pushed to the brink of madness, I decided to vanquish my intense fear of marshmallows.

Now, I realize that most people are not afraid of marshmallows, but I am. Other people may see marshmallows as fun candy sponge blobs that add nostalgia and merriment to a night around the campfire, but I do not. Whenever anyone opens a bag of Jet Puffs and says those awful words, “Who wants s’mores?,” my gut starts to quiver, my chest tenses up, the saliva in my mouth disappears, and suddenly everything tastes dry and chalky. Ever since I was in Boy Scouts, my standard response to the s’more question has been, “No thanks, I’ll stick to gin.” But when I reached the age of forty, I figured it was time to do something about the terror that had crippled my childhood.

Small marshmallows don’t bother me much. It’s those big, fat, campfire marshmallows that terrify me. My fear is that if I put one in my mouth, I will accidentally choke on it. Somehow, it will get lodged in my windpipe, adhere itself to the walls of my esophagus, and kill me in a matter of minutes. Then my corpse will lie there for days, bloated and rotting. By the time anyone found me, the marshmallow itself would have melted and disappeared, puzzling the authorities and leading them to determine that my cause of death was “unexplained.” As my soul departed the physical realm, I’d be yelling, “No, no, a marshmallow did me in! Don’t you see?! You must warn the people!” Then I’d disappear into the light—the marshmallow-white light of eternity.

That’s my fear.

One day, I decided it was time to conquer my fear by facing it. So I bought a bag of Jet Puff Jumbos, put one in my mouth, and inhaled.

Lo and behold, precisely what I always feared would happen did—and, as it turns out, my fears were entirely justified. It was terrifying. The marshmallow got sucked half-way down my throat and lodged itself there, creating a tight seal that prevented me from breathing. My face turned red, then purple, but I could not call for help. I could not scream. I beat on my chest and tried to dislodge the marshmallow of doom by exhaling, but nothing worked. Soon, my vision telescoped into a dark circle—the tunnel of death collapsing on itself—there was a bright pinprick of light, then nothing.

I thought I had died, but my wife called the paramedics in time to prevent too much brain damage. On the ambulance ride to the hospital, I heard them say, “He’s going to live, but keep a close eye on him, just in case.” Ever since, my wife has been giving me strange looks and asking me if I’m okay? It’s creepy. Of course I’m not okay—a marshmallow almost murdered me!

The upshot to all of this is that, far from conquering my fear of marshmallows, I am now more afraid of them than ever. I can’t even go down the “snacks” aisle at Target now, for fear that a Jet Puff sighting will trigger a relapse and force me to relive the trauma of that day all over again.

So no, I don’t think facing your fears is a very good idea. In fact, I think it is dangerous nonsense. I’m also afraid of lima beans and full-time employment, but you won’t catch me trying to conquer those fears anytime soon. I’d rather stay afraid than die a stupid, unnecessary death, and I advise you to do the same. Trust me: Whatever you’re afraid of, stay afraid, very afraid, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be lucky enough to survive.

Inside the Writer's Mind: A Closer Look

Many people seem to think it would be fun to live inside a writer’s head, because of all the clever things that whiz around in there, even when they are not writing.

“It must be great being you,” they’ll say, “because even if you’re at the most boring dinner party in the world, you can just sit back and tell yourself stories—in your mind!”

Such enthusiasm for the writer’s inner life reveals a profound misunderstanding of what writers actually do with their minds. This stems, I think, from a lack of understanding about what sort of person writes for a living, and what might happen at that dinner party if the writer in question opened their mouth and let everyone know what they were really thinking.

The tendency to romanticize the writer’s mind as a mystical fantasia of fascinating insights is quite common, and understandable, given that writers are such good-looking people. It is also highly unfortunate, since it fills people’s heads with all sorts of bizarre misconceptions.

For instance, people who do not write (let’s call them readers) tend to think that a writer’s job is to fill pages with magical streams of meaningful words. They have also been led to believe that writers are trying to create works that are beautiful and true, full of humanity and wisdom and lots of compelling verbs.

All of this is complete nonsense.

In fact, the writer’s true job has nothing to do with the act of “writing” as most people know it. No, the writer’s TRUE job is to PROTECT the rest of humanity from the tornado of crazy swirling around in his or her mind—to shield the unwitting public from the derangement and chaos of their inner thoughts, and, most especially, to hide the sick substance of their soul from the people they love and care about.

Properly understood, writing is not a form of self-expression, it’s a public service. Writers perform their civic duty by taking great care to package the outrageous abominations of their inner id into tidy, amusing tales that contain barely a whiff of the insanity behind them.

In truth, good writing has nothing to do with honesty, and everything to do with misdirection and subterfuge. Writers don’t set out to “tell a story,” their main goal is to cleanse the raw sewage of their thoughts enough so that they don’t get arrested. Every time they sit down to write, their biggest fear is that some of that sewage might leak out, prompting an unwanted call to the dreaded mind plumbers, who will come to the door in clean white coats waving orders to “fix” them.

Writers know all too well that if anyone ever found out what was really going on in their head, all hell would break loose. Consequently, writers spend most of their day trying as hard as they can to prevent these evil thoughts from escaping. To the casual reader, it may look as if their words are arranged in a pleasing order, but that’s only because the writer has worked very hard to make it look that way.

So next time you’re at a dinner party and find yourself sitting next to a writer who has nothing to add to the conversation, count yourself lucky. The last thing anyone wants is for a writer to open their mouth and say what’s actually on their mind. It may look like they’re doing nothing, just sitting there being bored, but the truth is they are working hard to protect you. It’s their job, and they take it seriously, so resist their charms and don’t encourage them to talk.

Otherwise, you’ll be sorry.

How Rich Authors Like Me Spend Their Money

One of the great things about being a writer is royalties. Every time someone buys my book, I get a portion of the money, and at the end of the month, Amazon sends me a check. I never know how much I’m going to get, but here’s a clue: they call them “royalties” because you have to be independently wealthy to live on them.

My first royalty check was for $27.13.  That may not sound like much, but to me, it was $27.13 more than I had before, so a celebration was in order. The money had to be spent.

But how?

The obvious first stop was the nearest Hardee’s, to wolf down a half-pound ThickBurger El Diablo. I love Hardee’s because, while every other fast-food chain in America is trying to offer “healthier” alternatives, Hardee’s has doubled-down on the heart-stopping goodness that American’s crave, offering a menu that basically says, “Fuck you, food Nazis.”

The excellently named ThickBurger El Diablo is a glorious amalgamation of grease-infused Angus beef, several strips of bacon, a slab of pepper-jack cheese, a layer of breaded cheddar-and-jalapeno-pepper poppers (!) supported on a bed of even more jalapeno peppers, all delivered on a giant squishy bun.

Straight out of the chute, the El Diablo weighs in at 1,380 calories and 92 grams of fat—but if you’re nice to the girl behind the counter, she’ll add a split hot dog (from the Hardee’s “Most American” series), which easily pushes it over 1,500 calories and 100 grams of fat. People who eat El Diablo’s don’t think these numbers are frightening, because they don’t think about them at all. I only include them here as a point of reference to illustrate how truly awesome these burgers are. I like them because they tend to get lodged in your digestive tract, making it unnecessary to eat anything else for several days, which saves money. And, since double-digit royalty checks only come once a month, that’s important.

I still had $18.22 left after my El Diablo binge, so I headed over to the liquor store to buy a case of Bud and some Swisher Sweets. Drinking beer and smoking cherry-flavored cigars is an under-appreciated pleasure. In fact, I’ve pitched the idea of doing an article on it to several notable “lifestyle” magazines, but I’m convinced that all those magazines are edited by socialist snobs who secretly want to live in France or Italy. They don’t care what real Americans do for fun; they’d rather tell their readers what imaginary Europeans are eating and smoking, as if it’s somehow “better.” It’s not. Trust me, Italians have no idea how to flavor a cigar.

After all that, I still had $6.89 burning a hole in my pocket, so I stopped in at a local convenience store and bought a small pack of fireworks. Individually, most of these fireworks are pathetic. But throw the whole box in a backyard campfire and the results can be quite impressive.

After the guys from the fire department questioned me, I reached into my pocket and found that even after all that celebrating, I still had twenty-six cents left. Instead of spending it on something frivolous, I chose to invest it. That’s what the jar in my kitchen drawer is for—retirement savings.

My next royalty check is due in three weeks, and I can’t wait. I’m eager to try The Big Slab at Famous Dave’s, which is 2,770 calories of finger-lickin’ fun. And every bite tastes like freedom.

Why More Famous People Should Move to Minnesota

It is said that fame is a prison, albeit one with nice toilets and some excellent catering. In places like Los Angeles or New York, for example, famous people get accosted all the time by adoring fans and camera-crazy paparazzi. That’s why famous people in those cities tend to stay home and order take-out—because walking around in public will inevitably attract two or three helicopters and a pack of nobodies, all desperate for a glimpse of you, an obvious somebody. Even us famous people don’t want that kind of attention, so most of us turn our homes into a kind of prison, rarely venturing outside except to take out the recycling.

One of the best things about being famous in Minnesota, however, is that people respect your privacy enough to leave you alone. In the Twin Cities, I can go into a grocery store any time of day or night, and no one will hassle me for an autograph. In other cities, I might get mobbed. But here, other shoppers will pretend they don’t see me. When I walk by, they’ll often make a big show out of examining the label on a mayonnaise jar or feigning interest in an oh-so-fascinating can of soup. Even when I make eye contact and hint with a wink that yes, I am that famous guy they’re thinking of, and no, I wouldn’t mind being asked for an autograph or selfie, they’ll avert their eyes and duck down the next aisle.

It’s refreshing.

Sometimes, Twin Citians are so respectful of my privacy that they won’t even attend my readings or other public events. I might be expecting two or three hundred people at a book signing, but ultimately find only four or five people audacious enough to break the silent pact between the ultra-famous and the incredibly invisible. Too, in the middle of the reading, suddenly mindful of their local manners, half of those people might get up and walk out.

Minnesotans are special that way.

Alone in a room with two or three hard-core groupies—people whose lust for a brush with fame is so intense that it overrides their Midwestern social conditioning—I still might have to fend off intrusive questions and sign a few books with witty insults, but that sort of thing comes with the territory. As distasteful as it is, famous authors are sometimes forced to mingle with their public—and, as long as you shower with good anti-bacterial soap afterwards and get two or three days of rest to recuperate, the trauma is rarely permanent.

My advice to famous people in other parts of the country who are tired of being so oppressively adored is: move to Minnesota. People here treat the famous like everyone else. It’s part of the culture, and it helps lighten the burden of fame. After living here a while, in fact, you might even start to miss all the attention you used to receive. But that’s how you know you’re really famous in Minnesota: when the public respects you enough to ignore you wherever you go. 

The Road to Genius: My Story

When people hear that I am a genius, the first thing they usually want to know is HOW I know I’m a genius, and how long I’ve known it.

The thing non-geniuses don’t understand is . . .well, pretty much everything. The fact is, being a genius is something you just “know,” like whether or not you like tuna fish, or how soon you’re going to puke. It’s a gut feeling. If you don’t know for sure that you’re a genius, trust me, you’re not.

Sure, there are IQ tests and other various methods of measuring “intelligence,” but these are all crude attempts by non-geniuses to quantify something they clearly don’t understand. All true geniuses reject these kinds of tests as stupid and beside the point, and so do I—because, as we’ve already established, that’s what geniuses do.

Accepting one’s own genius is a long process of discovering, time and time again, that you are smarter and better than everyone else. In school, it did not take long for me to realize that my fellow classmates were all whiny, snot-nosed know-nothings. It became clearer with each passing year that my teachers too were complete nincompoops; losers, every one. And when I entered the working world, I was gobsmacked by the absolute shit-storm of stupidity that surrounded me on a daily basis. No matter which company I worked for, the story was always the same: numbskulls and boneheads from top to bottom running around making crap-tastic decisions that resulted in huge clusterfucks of mind-melting idiocy—all of which could have been avoided if they had simply been intelligent enough to ask me first.

Alas, being ignored and overlooked by others is not uncommon in the life of a genius. Few people appreciate how much their lives could improve if they would just shut up and listen to what I’m telling them. But no, they’d rather listen to themselves than to me, even after I’ve explained, in no uncertain terms, how inferior their opinions are to mine.

People think being a genius is all MENSA mixers and Jeopardy tryouts, but the reality is much less glamorous. You can tell people over and over again how brilliant you are compared to them, and half the time they won’t even believe you. But what do you expect from non-geniuses? They are handicapped, after all, and because of their shortcomings we must rise above the fray and have pity on them. The lot of the genius is never easy; we must console ourselves with the knowledge that we are always right, and they are wrong, even if they don’t know it yet. Which they don’t, because they are not us.

Do I Hate the Letter “G”?—A Personal Inquiry

Recently it has come to my attention that I have an unconscious bias against words that begin with the letter “g.”

An annoyingly careful reader pointed the problem out: “Have you ever noticed that you always use the word ‘cemetery’ instead of ‘graveyard’ to describe places where zombies rise from the dead?,” this reader noted. “You also use words like ‘oddball’ and ‘freak’ to describe people who are clearly ‘gifted’ with extraordinary talent or expertise. And nowhere in your work have I ever seen you use the words ‘gentrify’  or ‘gulag.’ What have you got against ‘g’ words?”

I of course consider it reprehensible to discriminate against any letter of the alphabet. To wit, I have lobbied extensively to allow drug companies to use more “z”s and “x”s in their product names, and have written to Congress to officially declare the letter “y” a vowel. So when the “g” problem surfaced, I conducted a full self-investigation and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I apparently do hate words that begin with the letter “g,” and avoid them at all costs.

The question is: Why?

At first, I thought my aversion to “g” words might be a result of my intense religious devotion. Out of respect for the Almighty, do I avoid using the letter “g” because the letters “o” and “d” naturally follow, and to type anything else would be blasphemy?

Then I began wonder if it might have something to do with my awful handwriting. A note I made in one of my high-school English notebooks clearly reads, “G words suck big time.” But upon closer inspection, what I appear to have actually written was, “Georgics sucks big time”—referring of course to the poem by Virgil, which does kind of suck, but does not explain my “g” problem.

Desperate to find an answer to my apparent bias, I took a magnifying glass and examined my computer keyboard. Under magnification, but invisible to the naked eye, I saw quite clearly that a largish muffin crumb was stuck under the letter “g” on my keyboard. Hardened and immovable, this crumb made it impossible for me to type a “g” even if I wanted to. This explains why, in one of my stories, the protagonist is afraid of a “host” instead of a “ghost,” an omission that led at least one prominent critic to describe my work as “borderline insane.”

I am happy to report that the problem has been solved. The crumb has been removed and I am now free to use a generous gaggle of gratuitous “g” words, including great glistening gobs of gerunds and other glorified gobbledygook. This newfound freedom to use all twenty-six letters of the alphabet will, I hope, lead to more fascinating and accessible literature—the kind that doesn’t suck, and doesn’t require a critic to interpret.  

Where DO I Get My Ideas?

People often ask me how I get my ideas, and the answer is simple: I steal them.

The first idea I ever stole was by accident. I was just a kid, maybe six years old, and it was just sitting out on the table at a friend’s house. It looked like a piece of candy, so I snatched it up in my little fist and shoved it in my pocket. Only later did I discover that it wasn’t candy at all; it was a stupid idea, and it tasted horrible, like an old brussel sprout.

You’d think that would’ve been the end of it, but you’d be wrong. I didn’t steal an idea for many years after that, but sometime in junior high school I saw what looked like a great idea tucked in between the pages of a girl’s science notebook, and I couldn’t resist. After that, all through high school, I stole ideas wherever I could find them—in lockers, on the bus, next to the tennis courts, under the gym bleachers—and hid them in my room at home, in a shoebox I kept in my closet.

Things got bad in college, where I almost got busted. But it’s hard to prove idea theft, so the law was on my side.

Since then, I’ve met many artists who admit that they too steal ideas, most of whom are also quick to point out that they “only steal from the best.” Not me. I’ll steal from anyone, anywhere, anytime. I like to break into people’s houses late at night and steal whatever ideas they’ve left lying around. Malls and grocery stores are good places, too, because hardly anyone is on the lookout for an idea thief when there’s so much other stuff to steal.

Bad ideas. Stupid ideas. Regrettable ideas. I don’t care—I’ll take them all. Once, I saw a homeless guy on the side of the road. I drove up next to him and gave him a five-dollar bill. What he didn’t know was that as I was handing him the bill, I was using my other hand to steal an idea that was hanging out of his right pants pocket. It turned out to be the worst idea in the world—something about drinking a bottle of Listerine—but I took it anyway.

My advice to anyone interested in writing is simple: do the math. If everyone else is stealing from “the best,” it stands to reason that the best ideas have been picked over pretty thoroughly. It makes much more sense to lower your standards, gather up a bunch of mediocre ideas that no one cares about, and work with those. That way, you’ll never run out of ideas, and you don’t have to fight the crowds for leftover scraps of a “great” idea.

All my stories come from stale, recycled ideas that nobody wants. What’s more, no one is ever going to steal from me, because compared to the best ideas out there, mine really suck. Nobody would ever want them, which means they’re all mine.

Mistakes? I think not.

Some readers of The Bleeder have reported running into a few “errors”—missing words, misspellings, factual inaccuracies, etc.—and have gleefully called them to my attention.

Let me clear this matter up by stating categorically that there are no mistakes or errors of any kind in The Bleeder. Everything in the book is precisely the way I, the artist, wanted it. And if to the layman it looks as if I’ve spelled soap “sowp,” or set the Crimean War in upstate New Jersey, it’s because that’s the way I wanted to do it. And, because I am the artist, I don’t have to explain why—that’s for others to puzzle out.

Now, I understand how much fun it is to find mistakes and errors in other people’s work. There is a certain type of person for whom identifying the shortcomings and inadequacies of others is a preoccupation (if not an actual occupation), and nothing gives them more pleasure than to point out, in the most unctuous tone possible, how you fucked up. The implication is that you are a mindless idiot and they, because they found the error, are a flipping genius—one who, tragically, has yet to receive the MacArthur grant they so richly deserve.

Well, all I have to say to that is: think again. Clearly, I am the genius who deserves a massive grant to enhance my obvious geniusness, and you—people who look for missing commas like they’re panning for gold—are the mindless idiots. Did it ever occur to you that one of the reasons I, the infallible artist, might introduce unorthodox spellings and certain grammatical mysteries into my work is to make you idiots happy? I mean, if the highlight of your day is finding a “mistake” in one of my stories—you’re welcome. How about a thank you?

My advice is: enjoy your little “discoveries,” and don’t bother me about this crap again. Remember, whenever you point out in your tsk-tsk schoolteacher voice that you found a tiny “boo boo,” all you’re really doing is letting everyone know how ignorant you are about art and literature. Next time you bump into something that your literal lizard mind thinks is a mistake, ask yourself this: If I were an infallible genius, is this the way I would do it?

The answer to that question is always going to be: yes. So shut up and keep reading.

What is Pembroke Press?

Since publishing The Bleeder, people have been asking me about my publisher, Pembroke Press—and, more to the point, how they might get their own scribblings published by Pembroke as well.

As it happens, Pembroke is an extremely selective publisher (some would say exclusionary), and, to date, has only agreed to publish my work under its label. When I wrote to the publisher and asked him why this was, he said, “You mean there are other people who waste their time writing?” I said yes, and went on to ask him if other writers could submit their work for review. “They can,” he responded, “but it would be a complete waste of their time, because I would just delete it.”

To understand this rather gruff response, one must understand Pembroke’s origins and management philosophy. Pembroke Press is named in honor of the spirit and character of the Welsh Pembroke Corgi, and as such it is the only publishing company entirely run and managed by short-legged dogs with an attitude. In order to get the attention of Pembroke’s management you have to feed them, and in order to do that, you have to be there at 5:30 in the morning, when the office opens. Furthermore, the only way to get Pembroke Press to publish anything is to threaten NOT to feed management at the appointed times, and to be able to carry through on that threat.

Unfortunately, feeding management is no guarantee. Corgis, as a rule, hate publishing almost as much as they hate reading, so getting them to do anything constructive during office hours is a challenge. Taking them to the dog park helps, but after that they’re usually ready to call it a day, and the next morning they hardly ever remember how nice you were to them the day before. So then you have to get up and do it all over again. It’s exhausting.

Not many people would put up with this kind of behavior from their publisher, but I do, because the alternative is listening to a bunch of cranky, demanding editors barking out random orders all day long. So go ahead and submit your work if you want; just know that Pembroke’s management has no interest in publishing books, even mine. I just happen to be the company’s caterer, so they throw me a bone every now and then to keep the chow coming.