This month, Fabulous Florida Writers is pleased to welcome guest blogger D.J. Niko. D.J. is an award-winning author, journalist and editor who writes archaeological and historical thrillers. A lifelong traveler and adventurer, she personally visits and researches in the places she writes about. D.J. was our featured author on November 17, 2015.
Every
time I gear up for the release of one of my novels, I hold my breath. I don’t
know if this happens to every writer, but it sure happens to me. Four books
into my career, I still think: What will the critics say? Will anyone buy it?
Will the reviews be glowing, scathing, or, worst of all, lukewarm?
The
feeling is amplified when the book’s subject is something I am particularly
close to. This month’s release, The
Oracle, is one such instance. It is set in Greece, where I was born and
raised, and delves into both the ancient history and the current state of this
great nation. I’d always known I wanted to write a Greek setting, yet I’d
hesitated, waiting to build up storytelling experience—or, perhaps, nerve.
Since The Oracle was the third book in my Sarah Weston Chronicles series of
archaeo-historical thrillers, I took a deep breath and told myself it was time.
The
widely accepted “write what you know” logic might dictate that this was the
easiest book for me to write. In fact, it was the opposite. I can’t tell you
how many plot lines I scrapped and started over, each time sweating my looming
deadline. I even had full-blown anxiety attacks—twice.
While
writing what you know is a good policy, writing what you know too well is
fraught with peril. It demands that you dredge up your deepest emotions, let go
of long-held biases, and be unafraid of telling it like it is, even if you
might be judged for it. It’s scary, anxiety-inducing stuff, but, if handled
correctly, it can lead to some of your best writing.
In
my case, there were two imperatives: to describe the settings with the
authenticity one would rightly expect from a native, and to give some insight into
the culture, past and present, and into the sociopolitical minefield of a
nation bogged down by crisis and instability. The first part: no sweat. The
second was harder to nail, and the jury’s still out as to whether or not I’ve
managed that.
I’ll
share an example. In the excerpt below, I describe the scene in Omonia, which
in my childhood was the commercial and cultural hub of Athens but has since
been blighted by neglect and crime. I struggled with whether I should tell it
like it is or avoid it altogether. Writing is all about taking risks, of course,
so I opted for the former.
Sarah wandered the back streets of
Omonia, the square in the heart of downtown Athens. She needed time to process
what she’d just heard and a distraction to keep from doing something she’d
regret.
She glanced furtively
at the faces around her: Bangladeshi men, dressed in sarongs and tank tops,
chewing paan as they sat idly on stoops of shuttered buildings; homeless waifs
lying on filthy blankets on the sidewalk, staring vacantly at passersby and on
occasion summoning the energy to extend an open palm; an emaciated young woman
dressed in a cheap, skin-tight micromini, standing against a corrugated metal
construction wall, cigarette in hand, soliciting business.
She couldn’t believe
how Omonia Square had changed in the years since she’d visited Athens. Apart
from the die-hard souvlaki stands and tobacco kiosks, businesses had gone
under, leaving behind boarded-up buildings that eventually became magnets for
posters and political graffiti. The apartments, once desirable real estate, had
been left to decay and converted to low-rent immigrant quarters, many with no
heat or running water. The Greeks had all fled to other neighborhoods, handing
the spiritual keys to their Omonia over to poor, jobless foreign settlers—some legal,
some not—and letting them turn this former hub into a cesspool of debauchery.
Sarah stopped by the
temporary wall, behind which was an abandoned construction site now strewn with
garbage. She took a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and fumbled for a
lighter. The streetwalker walked up to her, offering a light. Sarah accepted
it, noting the multiple needle marks on the woman’s arms. She met her gaze and
realized she was probably no older than sixteen. The girl flashed a smile, a
heartbreaking playfulness in it. Sarah nodded her thanks and walked on.
It’s
a hundred percent accurate, yet it was hard for me to write. But I’m glad I did
it. There is a certain acceptance that comes with committing something to paper
and putting it out there for the world to see.
Many
scenes like this one unfold in The Oracle,
and—I hope—enrich the narrative. Though it cost me some sleep and tears, the
decision to paint a true portrait of Greece, for better or for worse,
ultimately was a good one—if for no one else, for me.
Truth
is, after all, one of the paragons of ancient Greek philosophy. As Plato said
in his seminal work, The Republic, “When
the mind’s eye rests on objects illuminated by truth and reality, it
understands and comprehends them, and functions intelligently.” It’s sage
advice for all of us.
The
Oracle is available this month from Medallion. For more
information, visit www.djnikobooks.com
or the author’s Facebook
page.