On truth and boundaries in writing
How do you know when you're ready to write a thing?
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I went to AWP, the annual writers’ conference, this weekend. I always complain about this giant literary event because I’ve been doing it for many years and have become quite jaded about the crowds and florescent lighting and literary networking vibes. But in recent years, it’s been much better, maybe because I am now sober, or maybe because I now recognize what a true delight and privilege it is to connect with so many new and old friends, students, and real-live readers of my work. This year, I also spent an extra day in Kansas City, where the conference was held, not to celebrate the Super Bowl, but to sit in a quiet hotel room with my thoughts and drafts and think about next projects. It was glorious.
I spent a lot of time thinking about the many wonderful conversations I had with writers over the weekend. One thing that came up several times was the issue of when we know we’re ready to write about something. We talked about when it was necessary to write through hard times to survive or understand; at a few panels and discussions, writers remarked how long it had taken them— years or decades even— to make sense of a project. Everyone is on their own timeline.
Even so, something people say a lot about memoir these days—which I’ve been discussing with my brilliant memoir students—is that it’s our job to write the “truth.” I admit that I have used this line of thinking at book events and talks as a shorthand for signaling that it’s important to say what I need to say for the project at hand, and to write honestly about my experiences regardless of what women are expected to say (or not say) in public forums or texts. But I have also noticed how this thinking, oversimplified, creates undue pressure on writers (especially women writers) to write painful or raw experiences before they’re ready.
Truth in writing is a tricky concept. One day I will write a whole thing about this. What I want to say now and what I’ve been discussing with my memoir students and fellow writers recently is that we need a healthy dose of emotional distance to make art out of something. Not distance in the sense that you’ve kept the hard thing at bay or refused to face your own life, but in the sense that you’ve waded into the thing and come to terms with it on a personal level—enough that you can now look at the thing on an aesthetic level, writing in a way that is meaningful not just for you, the writer, but for your readers.
And: we expect so much from women. So few boundaries, especially when it comes to our pain and our personal lives. I do not owe the world every inch of my “truth”—i.e. all my psyche and my life—at every moment. Who expects this of their favorite male author? In recent years, my family has experienced a number of personal losses and grief that are in part not my story to tell, and in part not a story I’m ready to share. So, I’m not talking about sparing people— I’m talking about understanding ourselves. And while I do believe that at times there’s value in writing the unprocessed thing, the exploratory thing, there’s still a sorting and a remove that’s necessary to get there.
Which brings me to my question for this week! How do you know when you are ready to write about something personal that is hard or painful or confusing or just… personal? And how do you think about your writing in relation to what you “owe” your readers or “owe” the “truth”?