I started writing my latest manuscript last fall, full of what seemed like ingenious plot ideas. The characters were like family. Their stories were as familiar as my own hand, their yearnings rang true. The deeper into the book I wandered, however, the murkier the path forward became. Characters who were supposed to drive the action sat around and sulked. Their motives became shrouded in clouds of anxiety, their goals collapsed. After a few months, my slam-bam action novel disintegrated into an existential yawn-fest. One day, while struggling with what was happening, it hit me: there was way too much me in the story.

When you announce you’re becoming a writer, advice springs up like dandelions on a June morning. “Write what you know” is one of the oft-repeated old saws. Like many well-worn expressions, I suppose there’s a kernel of truth in it. With this novel, I chose to stay close to my own life experience, not only because I knew the landscape, but because I had something I needed to get off my chest. That’s what writing’s for, right? Maybe for some folks, but apparently not for me.

I got so caught up in trotting out personal issues that I forgot that I was writing a thriller. My characters were sidelined by navel-gazing and self-scrutiny and neglected the body in the corner. All my chase scenes and hair-raising action congealed into a slow-pouring gel of meaningful glances and pouty run-on sentences. Finally, I realized I had a choice: switch genres, or sharpen my straight razor.

I sliced open my story and carved out a lumpy mass of personal angst, putting it in a shoebox so I can take it out and play with it when I’m feeling mopey. Much better. With my issues excised, I’m free to form characters who live to serve the story, rather than acting as shadow puppets for my psyche. Staring into my mirror, I repeat: my main character is not me. He can do things I’d never dream of, say things that appall me. I get to direct him, and then stand back and shrug innocently when the little dickens acts up. Kids, what are you gonna do?

Don’t get me wrong, I still care very much about the my characters’ longings. The major themes in the book will be those that resonate with me. Here and there, a face from my past might even emerge—in a heavy disguise, of course. What I’ve learned is that when I cut myself, my characters need not bleed. Freeing my cast from the weight of my personal luggage lets them dance around stage on their own, and that suits me just fine.