Have you ever tried to write about a personal tragedy or painful experience? How did it make you feel? What complications arose?
Photo by Sippanont Samchai (Creative Commons)
How Do You Write About Tragedy?
A year ago a close friend of mine took his own life. As a means of reprieve, I set about trying to write about him. I ended up with a string of memories and details that made me laugh or cry or both. Too painful to continue at the time, I left it alone and carried on with other things.
A few months later I picked up from where I left off, this time allowing myself the creative freedom to just write wherever it led me. I began to play with the truth, altering elements of what I’d written, expanding the story; even making things up.
I soon felt torn between conflicting minds: should I stay true to the facts to honor my friend and the relationship we had? Or should I draw from my experience to create something with relevance and appeal to a broader audience?
What Is Your Motivation to Write: Release or Therapy?
When you feel morally conflicted like this, it’s often helpful to figure out why you’ve chosen to write about a particular subject:
Is it for release or therapy?
In which case, allow yourself to write freely, without judgment. This is a private and personal experience, often not for the public eye.
Do you intend to publish what you’re writing about?
If so, are you presenting your story as truth? This can often complicate the process of writing. You feel responsible for the feelings of those involved. You worry about what they’ll think, how they’ll react. It might be necessary to discuss what you’re writing with those concerned. That way, you can gain an understanding of how they feel about it and know your limits: which details are safe to include? Are there details you should leave out?
Are you writing fiction?
All writers draw from personal experience for inspiration. In fiction, we have the scope and freedom to alter and expand on the truth. We’re not using real names or specific details. However, it can still present complications when drawing from experiences that are raw and painful, or from stories that are not our own.
Writing is an emotional business
It’s only natural to feel conflicted when writing from a place of vulnerability, but often we produce our best work when we write from the heart. It’s a form of expression, release and inspiration. If you’re finding it difficult to write about something, you may need to ask yourself why. Is this a story you want to share? How will it affect the people involved?
I finished the story about my friend. In the end, I decided to keep to the truth and wrote about all those small, treasured details I never want to forget. I saved it in a file named ‘personal’. For the time being anyway, it’s not a story I feel comfortable sharing.
How about you? Have you ever written about a personal tragedy.
PRACTICE
Try writing about an event or incident that’s personal. In the comments section, tell us what emotional conflicts arose? How did it affect your writing? If you were to publish this story, do you think you would change anything?
Write for fifteen minutes. If you feel comfortable, share your story in the comments section below. If you don't, then feel free to save it in a file named personal and keep it to yourself. Either way, happy writing.
As I write my memoir, Tell me what He did, I find I write the experience, then go back and edit the emotions. One vehicle I use to share the emotions is speaking with a therapist. Dr. Hilliard was my therapist at the time this passage covers. I was 17, counting the hours, minutes, and seconds until I could die – keeping a promise I made after a foiled suicide attempt. Dr. Hilliard was trying to get me to share the emotions of what happened, and I was challenged. Did not want to deal with anger. (Spoiler alert 😀 – I survive) but it gets close to my birthday before I decide to live. Here’s the passage. I just finished editing it today and hope that it shows emotion. This takes place January 1970.
I sit in my usual chair in Dr. Hilliard’s office and clench my hands together.
Dr. Hilliard says “How was your week?”
“Okay, I guess. Lots of homework and a big research project.”
“Good luck with your research.” Dr. Hillard glances at his notes. “I was wondering if we could continue where we left off last week.”
I sigh and look at my hands. “I guess. … I still don’t see why you want me to be angry at them.”
“I’m not trying to force feelings on you; but I’m curious why you think you don’t have any anger.”
“My parents were raging drunks and you want me to be like them? If I ever find myself angry like that, I won’t wait until my eighteenth birthday to kill myself.” Oh no, shouldn’t have said that.
“You’re still thinking about death?”
“Yes.” I won’t lie to him, but have to find a way to stop him from worrying or it could be trouble for me. “Don’t worry, it’s a long time before my birthday – almost three months.” I peek at his face and see concern.
Not going to tell him I have over a hundred Chloral Hydrates saved up for April twenty-first. Planning to take the pills and vertically slit my wrists in a bathtub of hot water so my blood won’t coagulate. Won’t make the mistake I made last time.
Dr. Hilliard says, “I know you don’t like antidepressants, but I think you should consider taking them again. I’m sorry to see that you are still hurting enough to consider suicide.”
“No, no pills. They cloud my mind.”
“You said, if you got angry like your parents you would kill yourself before your birthday, that would be a violation of your promise to me. I need to trust that you will keep your promise.”
“You’re right.” I sigh. “I did make that promise to you. I will keep it.”
“Good. We may have to renegotiate when it gets closer to your birthday.”
I press my lips together. I want to tell him there will be no negotiations. I made my promise and am enduring it now. But I have to get him off my case. “Okay, but not now.”
He says, “If you feel you can’t keep your promise, I want you to come and talk with me.”
I nod. Nodding is not a verbal agreement so I’m not committing to this even though he
thinks I am. Good, he seems happy with that.
“I realize,” Dr. Hilliard says, “what we are talking about is difficult and I don’t want to give you unnecessary hurt, but there are some topics we need to explore so that I understand what went on and find a way to help you sort out what happened. I’d like to talk a bit more about how you felt when your father came into your room.”
“I told you, I pulled so far inside myself that I was in the void, so I wouldn’t have to feel.”
“Not feel what?”
I think for a bit. … “A lot of things. One thing was, what he did hurt me and I couldn’t cry out or I’d get killed, so I had to go inside myself to numb the pain.”
“What was he doing that caused pain?”
“I don’t remember. I’m not trying to avoid your answer. One day, Mom asked me what Dad did and I made something up because I couldn’t remember. She said, ‘I heard him get into your bed.’ I don’t remember him doing that, but I made something up about him touching me. All I remember was that he was lying on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. And something sharp hurt me between my legs. When that hurt came, I went somewhere, what I call the void, and sort of watched him from above squirming on me. From that time on, he would always get in my bed and I rushed to find my void. The less I was in my body, the less what he did hurt.”
“What do you think he was doing when you were in the void?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”
“I think you have an idea and it is something we need to talk about, but I won’t press you right now.”
I know what you want me to say, but you’re wrong. He wouldn’t do that. He was just rough. Anything else would be too much to bear.
You said that there were other things you didn’t want to feel when you went into the void. What other feelings did you escape?”
“Shame. … I knew no other dads did what he was doing to me with their daughters, and I
felt dirty. Even though he’s dead, I still remember the feeling of his grubby hands on my body, poking and squeezing.” I clasp my hands tighter and keep looking down. “There was something wrong with me. I know it because he was never able to love me. If he loved me he would have stopped doing what he was doing. And …” What’s the right word? “… hopeless, … because each time he came in my room it was like digging me deeper and deeper into an inescapable pit. I’m still sinking in that pit and it’s years later.”
“Did you ever want to hit his hand away?”
“No! If I had pushed his hand or stopped him in any way, he would have killed me. Don’t
you get it, he would have killed me!” Control yourself. You’re letting him get you upset.
“So, when he left your room, what did you do?”
“I stayed in the void as long as I could. When I came out of it, I took deep breaths so I wouldn’t cry. Sometimes I hurt myself to stop tears.”
“How’d you hurt yourself?”
“Hitting my leg, pinching my arm, digging fingernails into my palms, and I found a way to bend my second toe and pull a muscle that made a sweet pain all up and down my leg that lasted long enough to banish tears.”
“If someone came up to you and hit or pinched you, wouldn’t you conclude that they might be angry at you for something?”
“Yes.”
“So, when you hit or hurt yourself, doesn’t it follow that there is anger behind those actions?”
“If there is, it’s anger at myself.”
“Some people contend that depression is anger turned against yourself.”
“Well if that’s so, it’s okay to be angry at myself.” I want to run out of the room.
“Why?”
“If I wasn’t so awful, then he wouldn’t have done those things to me. I was stupid, dumb, and ugly. He told me so.”
“Oh, Shirley, I know it’s hard for you to believe, but you were an innocent victim, not the cause of what he did. He was the adult; you were his child.”
A sob escapes my throat and he hands me a Kleenex. “It really is safe to cry here.”
I shake my head ‘no’ and bite the inside of my mouth, taking deep breaths until the tears recede.
“When I think of the things he did to you, it makes me angry at him.”
“Why?”
“No father should ever hurt his daughter like he hurt you.”
“Good, then you can be angry for me.”
He laughs, “Doesn’t work that way, you have to feel your own feelings.”
“I can’t afford to be angry. Howard and Diane are so angry and hurtful. I don’t want to be like them, so I have to control my anger.”
“Ah, so you do have anger, you just control it.”
No, no, no! “It isn’t anger unless it’s expressed.”
“I think we are splitting hairs here. Anger is anger whether you express it or not.”
“Why are you trying to make me like them?”
“I’m not.”
“I won’t rage and get angry.”
“All anger is not raging. Sometimes you can be angry in a way that produces good results.”
Hmmm. “You mean, like I can get angry at the Viet Nam War and not hurt anyone because of it.”
“Yeah, and you can get angry at what your parents did and not hurt anybody.”
“How can I get angry at them when it’s my fault?”
“Are you so sure you’re to blame?”
“There’s no other explanation that works for me.”
“Trust me,” he smiles, “there are other explanations. I wish we had more time today to
explore this further but our session’s almost over. For next week, I was wondering if you could think about what your life was like before you were seven. Will you do that?”
“Okay.”
“Have a good week. Good luck with your phone survey.”
My mind is a hurricane of emotions. I won’t deal with anger. I won’t!
Beautiful, strong, sad, emotional and awesome.
Your writing is so affective and effective. It will be so close to home for so many, they, like I, will want to reach out to Shirley, and reach within to forgive and love themselves. Bravo, Heather! Bravo!
Thank you Kate. I’m glad – that is my goal. To share my story as an encouragement to others.
This is very powerful Heather – raw, exposed but also protected because the subject is so painful. Shirley’s rejection of anger feels real and relevant, an insight that could only come right from a writer’s heart. This is great – thanks for sharing. Did you find it difficult writing this?
The first time I tried writing my memoir twenty-five years ago it was tough, and I bled out on the page. Now that I’m healed from my past, the writing is not as difficult. At times it is hard to get back to that depressed state of being. My first writing was more facts, now in my editing, I’m going back to experience the feelings and sharing those. The feelings don’t have the hold on me they once did. Some chapters take a long, long time to edit because of the pain. But my goal is to encourage others who have suffered abuse that real healing is possible. So writing has a purpose.
Whether in my devotional writing or my fiction work, I have come to realize the bridge between all that inspires me to write what I do is my heart which carries the memories of good and bad experiences. I contend fiction is never pure fiction, it is written from bits and pieces of our heart desiring to share how it feels.
I agree Coach Brown. There is a piece of me, a tiny speck in everything that I write.
I agree. I always find myself using some piece of truth from my life and using it, even if I change it a abit.
I think writing
fiction depends basically on the writer’s ability to select what will be of
most interset to the
reader. My point is that the latter is expecting to find in a text a strange
aspect of human nature, but very life tragedies meet such a criterion or are
good wriitng materials. I do give voice to some of my life tragedies while
writing, but the problem is that I find myself
adding details that make me say with confidence that it’s very hard to stick
only to the truths of a certain personal tragedy. Here, for me , lies the
real process of wriitng : A personal touch is imporatnt even to personal
painful stories.
Thank you for your story. You are right, it is hard writing about something that hits so close to home. I have a short story that I should share. So I am going to write it but it is going to be later.
I chose the first chapter of my very first book, The Pink Eraser, to share about emotional writing. The tale is 98% my life. I experienced healing at the end of writing the tale, but many times, I had to stop and breathe as I wrote.
Chapter 1 State of Panic
1:00am.. Again.
Kitchen clock ticking. She could hear it from her bed. Refrigerator running. A
faint drip in the bathtub. Maybe she even heard the footsteps of the grey
spider that crawled behind the couch. She was so tired! Every night, it got to
be this late, and she was so exhausted that she finally gave in to the fight.
Often, she would nap in the afternoon, just to gather enough energy to stay up later and later. She feared the sleep that most found restful. Her sleep was always restless and fitful. Two hours into sleep, when her brain would make the changeover from (the first level to the next),she would awaken in an anxious panic,sights and sounds then indeterminate, but she knew the struggle in her chest as she felt barely able to breathe.
Some nights, she would rush out of bed and create a path in the carpeting as she walked around circle after circle, holding her head, gasping for air, then trying to settle her breathing in to a slower pattern. The feeling of fear was relentless.
Other times, her legs were so restless, she felt as she squirmed around the bed, that if she could just run, run very fast, each way, downtown and back, Ohh! Maybe just
maybe she would tire enough to get to sleep. Why though?! So that she could
wake up in another state of panic?!
Unable to take the drugs that lulled others with slurred speech, drooping eyelids, and pureed thoughts, into a cradle of deep slumber, Opal Googled and read seemingly endless tricks and tips and nature’s remedies.
Herbal tinctures. Cup after cup of chamomile tea. Warm milk. A spoonful of honey. Sleep would find her, but it was later in the night when the frightening moments
would come back. She was so afraid! Please! No! Not again!
Yes again! Get used to it! It comes over and over and over!
Tonight, she hears the yelling and screaming first. Someone is out to get her. Opal hears the noise, the threats and knows that she has to run! Hurry! Don’t think! Just
run!
Where is the noise coming from?! Who is it that is going to kill her now?! There’s no time to think! Opal has to run and so she does. Breathlessly. Stumbling but staying
upright, running as fast as she can.Look around! The weather is sunny. It is day
time. If it’s day time, others must see this! Why won’t they come to help?!
Opal keeps running, hearing the screams from behind! “I will get
you this time! You are not getting away from me!” “Do you hear me?! Come back!!!! “STOP”!!!
But, Opal doesn’t stop. She keeps running and running. Down the sidewalk where the concrete has cracked. Oh, she might slip! Now, onto the road, the tar, aged but smoother; she is safer running on this surface.
“I said Stop!” “When I get my hands on you, I will kill you!!!”
The voice seems to be catching up! Opal runs faster still! There’s got to be a place to hide where she will be safe and hidden from this perpetrator, this would be murderer, but where?! Into the school yard! Surely, there will be people here to help!
There’s no one! Fences! Opal feels pain in her chest; tightening, clenching pain!
Constricting her throat pain!
“Stop right there! You are going to be dead soon, missy!! When I get my hands
on you, I will kill you with them!”
Omigod! The voice is right behind her! Opal sees a red truck and makes a dash to jump onto the back. There’s a bright blue plastic tarp in the truck and Opal crawls
underneath to hide. Her heart is pounding out of her chest. Her breathing loud
and rapid, she tried to settle it, so as not to be heard. She hears the
footsteps seeming to run past, and then they stop. It is quiet. Excruciatingly
quiet. Dead silence. Maybe just maybe they’re gone. It is then that Opal feels a hand grab her leg and begin to pull her from the back of the truck!
“I’ve got you now. You are dead!!” This is when Opal usually awakens with a near silent scream, one that bolts her from the bed in a sweat. Never seeing who wants to
hurt her. But.. this time is different.
Opal is ready for a fight! She turns around and..Omigod!!! What the..?!! She screams! She has awakened!
By the way, the nightmares have ended.
I’m so pleased to hear the nightmares have ended, Kate. This reads as a real, terrifying and relentless experience… I can only imagine. I think it’s great that you’ve found relief and healing from writing about it. Thanks for sharing.
I agree with Gemma – this is a good description of panic – and I’m glad the nightmares have ended. I didn’t see the part where she slept, and assumed she was awake for part of this. I would be curious what caused the nightmares to end – was it the writing of the story or did you take steps to stop the nightmares. I thought it was effective to list the remedies that were used to try and help the sleep. The nightmare chase had tension. If you wanted to make this passage stronger, you might want to read it aloud and find the words that are not necessary. In my writing I used “that” at times when it is not necessary. Also words like just and so sometimes weaken a passage. I would have continued to read to find out how the healing happened.
The entire book flows into healing. It is the last chapter however, where the nightmares end. Opal as a young child has a traumatic experience with the pink eraser. Later in her life, she finally learns that it is okay to make mistakes. While the writing of my initial tale is immature, I love even the naivety of it. I learned that it’s okay to make mistakes.
For sure – I think we learn more from mistakes than we do from success.
Okay this story will be be all facts. Could take me longer then 15 to finish it.
I was sitting with my father one day and asked him if he had any feedback. I had just told him that I wanted to go into the police academy. “Go for it James.” That is what he said. “I think you would make a great cop James.” He replied That was really good he said that because I was already signed up and started in two days.
Well I started the academy in the winter. He was so happy for me. He was running around telling everyone that I was going to be a cop. All of the family was happy other than my brother in-law. That was just because he had a run of bad luck with them. That’s another story for a different day.
I was about three weeks into the academy when my dad had to go to a Doctor to get his heart checked out. They rushed his butt to the hospital. He was going to need a triple bypass. He was not stuck in the hospital waiting his turn for the bypass. I had been to see him many time in there. I would be just checking on him, I wanted to make sure they were taking care of him. The day before the bypass I stopped and talked with him for a few hours and than headed to school. “Hey dad take care, I will stop in tomorrow before I go to the academy.” I said as I walk out the door.
My mother called me it was around 2pm. I was still at work, getting ready to leave. “James you need to get down here as soon as you can, please.” She said crying. I left work so fast I forgot to hit the time clock on the way out. I knew if she was calling it was something bad.
The bypass went as planned but he was not doing so well after. He had gotten sick from something in the water, from where they had him on a self breather machine. The next few weeks things got worst. One day he would show improvement and then a day later he would be way worst. I was stopping after work before I went to the academy and then I would stop after the school.
There was one hell of a snow and ice storm that blew in that night. The next day I didn’t have school, so I took mom out to eat. We had gotten a phone call saying that we need to get to the hospital now. I knew it was not a good sign. We both knew what was coming. We had being praying for the best, but knew the worst was here.
Three hours after getting there he had passed away. Talk about a low blow. My head was all messed up. Here I was in the police academy and working. My dad just die and wasn’t sure what to do next. I was allowed to take a few days off from school but was going to need to make up those days at a later time.
I was at a stopping point. My mother wanted to kill herself. She was taking all of the blame for what happen. I tried so hard to keep my head moving in the right path. I was at the end. I am going to drop out and try again later. That when I heard it. “Don’t do it son, I can do it. I have faith in you son. Be strong.” That is what I heard in my ears. I could explain it.
The next few months were hard,very hard. But I passed the academy. I walk a thin blue line.
Thank you
James
Those are a lot of challenging, sad facts. As a rough draft there is an important story in what you have shared – how to persist in the face of such sadness. I was curious about your brother (the other story), and loved your father’s encouragement of you. What I wanted to know more about was how you handled the hard, hard times in the academy before you walked that thin blue line. This has the makings of a great story.
Okay as you wish.
My brother in-law just hated cops. When he found out that I was going to become a cop he started making of me. He would come over to the house and start drinking just to pick a fight. I knew I had to pick my timing just right or I would have been kicked out of the academy.
“Hey James you are going to be a pussy cop.” He would yell at me all the time. What he didn’t know was that the time I was in the academy I was doing ride along with other officers. I was building friendships that would one day help.
My brother in-law had been in jail more then he had a free man. “Damn you Nate you need to stop your drug running. One of these days I am going to put your ass in jail.” I told him. “Yeah sure James you will have to catch me first.” He would say just smiling.
I was throwing a huge party for all of my hard work. Going through the academy was some tough crap. I invited all my friends and family. Yeah he came too. He started drinking and would go missing for a bit here and there. I knew he was off smoking his weed.
“Hey James it is time for your ass kicking.” He yelled I said with a smile. “Are you sure you want to go there?” “Yeah I am sure you pig.” He yelled.
Here stood about 20 brother’s in blue. All of us cops and he is calling me a pig. Now remember we are off duty just having a good time. I couldn’t look weak in front of the new brothers. I step off of the back pouch and stepped up to my brother in-laws face. He gave me a big push trying to knock me off of my feet.
I grabbed his right arm and wiped around his back. I kicked his legs out from under him. He hard the ground face first. Next thing I know he was trying to tap out. “Please let me go bro I was just picking on.” He was yelling. It was kinda of funny.
I had one of my knees in his back and the other one on the back of his neck. I still had his right arm in a lock. I was just sitting there waiting. Then next thing I knew here came a few friends in blue that were on duty. They handed me a pair of handcuffs. Click click click. I love that sound.
I helped Nate to his feet. Put his ass up against the cop car. They took over from there. They search him and found almost a pound of weed on him. “Hey James we know he is your brother in-law. What should we do?” They asked me. “I will go flush that weed but you are still taking his ass to jail for me.” I told them. I knew he would be there the rest of the night.
“Watch your head bro as you get in the car and have a nice night.” I said to him. What a great night. One pound of weed off the street and a loser behind bars.
I liked this story. I easily read through the whole thing, and it enjoyed it. I loved how you took the advice of others and wrote a nice short story. This piece makes you want to know more facts. 🙂
This is just a suggestion, based on an observation – maybe you can include your father’s line first and then work backwards from everything that had happened. A bit like how the ‘Great Gatsby’ starts off with a quote, or even a chapter in Sylvia Plath’s book ‘Bell Jar’ starts.
I come up with all sorts of ideas for fictional tales, but in the midst of writing, I find so much from my own life in them, especially when establishing a history with a character. Your article made me consider what I hadn’t so much before–that this was a kind of therapy for me too, but more in freeing up possibilities for the future, or “what if it had gone this way instead” scenarios. I have so many of them that reached a certain point and never got finished. They are still fun to pull out and read every blue moon or so, but I can’t really pick up where I left off with many of them. My guess is that they served their purpose; I grew from the experience and then I moved on.
It is time for the best surprise of the night. The bright eyed, brown haired girl is excited even though the gift is not for, but her twin brother. The girl and her stunning blond Mother sneak down to the basement to get the oddly shaped present wrapped in green and red sparkling paper. The little girls jumps up and down in anticipation of the reveal.
The sneak back up the cream carpeted stairs where her twin brother awaits with his hands covering his brown eyes.
“Open your eyes.” The girl says in her outside voice. He does as she says and takes the package, but doesn’t open it until Mom says. When he has permission he tears the paper without hesitation.
An ivory wheel is revealed and the child’s face brightens in realization that his dream of owning his own skateboard has come true. His 100 watt smile leaves a happy glow on the family members around him. Everyone is filled with the christmas spirit.
There was something magical about that particular holiday. The dinner was lovely, and the gifts well thought about, but there was something more to it that, and only the Mother new why.
The Mother’s heart swelled with joy as she looked at her children and family. This is what she prayed for. She asked that this year would be special for everyone. One nice christmas before she had to reveal what she found out the day before. The news can wait a day. Let everyone have a carefree night, and tomorrow she will tell them that for the second time in her life, she has cancer.
Very good – poignant – Glad to see even the mother got her special gift – the joy of her family. The cancer mention at the end is powerful. Wondering if there is a way to show more of the mom’s inner feelings as she interacts with the other family members without giving away the cancer. When I initially read it, I was contemplating that the family was poor and the blonde twin had helped purchase the gift to give to her brother. Was surprised to find the ending was cancer.
Still very good.
It is very interesting to hear how someone who was reading this viewed it. If I edited this I would take use your wonderful advice. This was from my memory and I am the little girl, so it’s interesting that you said that about the emotions of the Mom. Thank you for reading and commenting. I am glad you liked it 😀
I thoroughly enjoyed this, it was beautiful and the ending was really well crafted.
When I was fourteen, I joined a cult. It was my form of teenage rebellion. Sometimes I wonder if I would have been better off smoking a lot of weed at that age. This particular religious group that I was a member of discourages association outside of its organisation and it also shuns its former members… so if you decide that the religion is not for you, you are left with nothing in the end – your family (if they are in the religion) stop talking to you and you don’t have any friends to turn to either.
I have left. It has been years since I have attended one of their church services… but I have not been formerly shunned. I have lived my life hiding from their members, hoping that they will never find me, so that I can still talk to my best friend. I told my best friend about how I feel towards the church, and her, being a member, was surprised and sad to hear my resolutions.
I have been preparing myself or the worst – knowing that one day, she might possibly shun me. OR she might talk to me, who knows. I have tried to make friends outside of that church, but it’s been hard. It’s never easy to go and prepare your friends. I don’t mean to compare, but sometimes I can’t help it. I’m on the search for a new best friend … and it was been a difficult journey.
Have you ever tried to write a story about this, Rebecca? As difficult and painful as it must be, it would hold a great deal of fascination and interest for others. You may find writing a memoir or using your experience to create a piece of fiction may be a valuable healing process for you.
Hi Gemma,
Thanks for your feedback – I have considered writing a story yes, have been writing bits and pieces. Glad you find it interesting.
Just thought I’d share a couple of experiences I’ve had recently when writing my book. In one scene I had to write about a nightmare that my main character was having and about half way through I realized that I was feeling physically sick, not just about the scene but also about how my character felt when she woke up. Even though it was painful, it was still important for her growth. The second experience was amazing how quickly and without thought something can just end up 3 pages long, I had my headphones in listening to a love song on repeat and cried the whole time. For me, every part of book my is an emotional journey. I love my character so much but I know that the difficult things I have to put her through will make her stronger.
We suffer more from tragedy by neglecting to tell the story behind it.
When I finally began to write about the disappearance of my brother (having waited more than thirty years) it was with a strong adherence to the facts. Shortly into the second draft, however, I realized that mere facts were not going to be enough. I needed to “essay around events” to write closer to their truth (thank you, Jay Ponteri). Also, fictionalizing parts enables the story contextual breadth and–hopefully–a more universal appeal. More aligned with autofiction now, the book is occupying a wider space than I every imagined.
Five drafts in and I’m almost there!
A couple of years ago one of my two best friends died from leukemia. She and I we used to write stories together.
I don’t think my writing’s been the same ever since.
Lately I’ve considered putting some of my writing together. Some of the things I’ve written to her memory, or that would have been considered for her in another time. I’ve thought about putting it together in almost a journal-format, piecemeal poems or fragments of stories, short snippets I would whisper to her ghost in the dark.
This was a difficult post to read, if only because it’s something I’ve only recently considered. It was helpful, though, and a good reminder of a few ways to stay on-track if I decide to. Thank you for your insight.
I’m sorry to hear about your friend, Ramsey. We never quite recover when we lose someone close. I think you should put what you’ve written together – if anything, it will be something you can look back to in years to come. Glad the post could be of help.
Note: I know I often tell where I should tell in my writing, but writing is somewhat painful to me, and so to just get past that I have been just trying to write anyway I can for now. Eek. :/
In the classroom. I hate this place. Other kids are laughing with each other, and I am alone. I am okay with alone, but it is obvious to everyone else that I am alone. When the teacher asks us to pair into groups, I am fidgeting looking over the class for anyone who will pair with me. There are two people who sometimes will. Cassy and Jason. Cassy sometimes is my friend and sometimes decides she’d rather be popular and she ignores me. Jason has a sweating problem and so no one will partner with him either. So we are often paired together as the rejection people of the class or something. No one says that, that’s just how it seems.
Actually I usually am the one to ask him, my voice is nervous with fear, but he generally says yes. I think maybe he doesn’t care either way if he has a partner or not. But I don’t want to appear alone to the other kids. Even though I am. I don’t get teased or anything though. But I am just very aware of being different.
It has always been like this. I am not sure why. Another memory was my very first day of preschool. I actually tried making a friend. Another girl. I started to talk to her and she talked back and I was scared at first but i just told myself that I am making more of this then there is.
And it was actually working, we were talking, and I was thinking, see this isn’t so hard.
But then she pointed out that my shirt was black. (It was actually a martin luther king jr shirt with a black background and he was a series of grey tones.) I told her that this is Martin Luther King and that there is nothing wrong with a girl wearing a black shirt. But somehow I had a sinking feeling that I had failed. I could not apologize for the shirt though and wear pink the next day. I was annoyed because I liked the shirt very much.
But the next day she had made other friends and everyone was in a large group at that point, and I was just too nervous to talk to all those people. Several times it seemed like they were reaching out to me, coaxing me to join them, but I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe they were really about to make fun of me. And I had then run out of their view of me. And so was the general routine for me. I could maybe talk to kids on a one to one, but as soon as it became a group I just disappeared off by myself and ignored them, like they didn’t even exist or they were off in the distance like the rain patters on the rooftops and you just go about your day not minding it.
I also am I sure had ADD because in first grade I remember there was a spelling test and the word purple was on the test. But there was a poster with the word Purple spelled on it, so I ran out of my seat to examine the poster and the spelling of purple. All the kids laughed at me I realized that was not the right thing to do, as every other student in the class had remained seated.
I once again tried making friends. This time I wasn’t afraid. I particularly was interesting in these two girls who I think were twins because they looked exactly the same and they were always laughing and giggling like in the exact same way. But they pretty obviously rejected me.
One of the girls said to me, “Why is it that no one talks to you?”
I was a bit defensive and I said, “Well as you can see I am one of the only white people in this school, I am sure it is because I am the only one.”
“But there is another white girl in the class and she talks to other kids.”
“Well yeah, then I don’t know why.” And I kind of huffed off. And they giggled to each other again as I did.
I write whenever I feel strong emotions about something whether it be a personal journal which I would share with no one but a therapist or a letter to use as communication. I have also written about personal events for school assignments. It has always been an incredibly healing this for me. It is a release as I can move the feelings from my mind to a paper and put them in place. I can express what does not make sense in my mind. One thing that always comes up for me is wondering why I sometimes struggle to write or take a long time when I am writing about something that is not emotional. When I write emotionally it gets done very quickly and very well. I question if this is a good or bad thing. I also deal with vulnerability issues if Im sharing it even as a letter but Ive learned its often better to be real and let others understand me through my writing.