Why I Write: Because I’m Not Always Brave

Last night, I posted Ask Any Scientist! to Young Adult Catholics. The post argues against using “science” as a justification of homophobia. I knew as I was conceiving of, writing, and publishing the post that I was more likely to get flamed for it than to get support, as the commenters most active on that blog are those who like to pick it apart. My tone was a little more snarky than usual (homilies against same-sex marriage tend to bring out the snark in me), and even when I take the least offensive tone possible, my posts about women’s ordination and just treatment of GLBTQ individuals always get flamed.

For a moment, this made me wonder if making the post was worth it at all. Because I get weary of having people rail at me as if I’m a terrible person because I disagree with what my institution dictates that I believe. It always feels like a personal attack, as my Catholicism (and my feminism, and my bisexuality) are all core facets of my identity, so that attacking any one of these things feels like you’re attacking me and not an idea. I am Catholic. I am a feminist. I am bisexual. These are not ideas. These are the realities of living in my skin. I’m sorry if my reality is offensive to you (actually, I’m not. But I am sorry that I can’t live out my reality and speak my truth in peace, when doing so isn’t hurting anyone.)

Sure enough, the first comment I got on my post was one comparing my argument to the reasoning that eugenicists use. Often, I don’t even respond to these comments because it’s draining, and these people are never interested in dialogue. This time, I did respond. Whether I have the energy to continue the conversation remains to be seen.

Last night as I was deciding whether to go through with the post or not, two things pushed me forward. One was my deadline. I didn’t want to miss it, nor did I want to switch gears at the last minute when I’d struggled most of the day deciding on a topic to begin with. But the second reason was by far the more important one: I wondered, if we are not able to write about what we truly believe, if we are not able to write from our core, even when what’s at our core is pain or embarrassment or snarkiness or fear, then what good is writing at all? If I allow fear to start dominating my writing, then I lose a certain amount of integrity as a writer. And sometimes, my writing self is the one place where I feel my integrity remains intact.

Because here’s the truth: I let fear dominate my actions in real-life far too often. Although I write about being bisexual, there are still people I’m not “out” to in my real life. As my marriage to a man approaches, there are hundreds of people who I know now and will know in the future who will never see me as anything but straight, and I don’t go out of my way to correct them. Last week, I bit my tongue in response to two homophobic remarks. Both times, I rationalized my silence based on “professionalism” (since both happened within a work context.) Both times, I knew why I really remained silent: fear. Fear of being uncomfortable. Fear of having my professionalism compromised. Fear of “forcing” my ideas on others. Fear of many things, but ultimately, just plain old fear nonetheless.

Obviously, I don’t try to hide that hard. The Internet is not exactly a private place, and publishing is not exactly a private act. I know that a quick Google search could lay bare the many things I don’t always talk about in my day-to-day life. So I do consider this writing, knowing there could be offline repercussions, as an act of bravery. But sometimes, my writing feels like the only place in my life where I live up to the type of bravery and honesty I value. And that’s why it’s so important to keep doing it.

Writing Makes me Cry

. . . and I consider that a good thing.

I’m not always the greatest at being in touch with my emotions, which usually comes back to bite me. I went for a period of about five years in my life when nothing could make me cry, no matter how sad I felt. When I was in therapy, my therapist sometimes gave me the homework of writing letters — to myself and to others. Right away, I started noticing something: writing the letters made me cry.

But I had been writing unsent letters and journal entries forever. Why was this different? For one thing, writing “on assignment” forced me to delve deeply into issues and feelings I might have avoided otherwise. It also pushed me to go further with those issues than I would have on my own.

Most writers take a little while to “warm up” to their writing, and this is just as true in informal writing like letters, emails, or journal entries. Usually, my  journal writing at the end of the day remains short, perfunctory, capturing a few thoughts or images or memories. But it usually stays in the “safe” zone — where what I’m writing was more-or-less preplanned and stays within those safe bounds.

Despite my own habits, I heartily recommend going outside those safe bounds. If you’re writing about an emotionally charged experience and you’re not feeling much, you’re probably not going deep enough (unless you feel certain that you’ve totally resolved something, in which case, congratulations!). To take advantage of writing’s cathartic benefits to the utmost, we need to stop being ashamed to write what we REALLY think, stop being afraid someone might read it. This leads to new levels of honesty, to new depths of feeling. So as I continued to feel a little numb about my upcoming move away from Duluth, I knew what I had to do. I took my journal to Chester Park, hid behind some trees, and wrote a “goodbye” letter to Duluth. I noticed that I didn’t feel much for the first page and a half — the length of a usual entry for me. It wasn’t until I went past the “clearing my throat” and got to the meat of the matter — the way Duluth had and hadn’t let me down in seven years — that the tears I needed to shed finally started making their way out of my system. There are probably more where those came from, but it’s good to at least know the plumbing’s still working.

When I was in college, I did research on the benefits of journaling and discovered that

• journalers sleep better at night
• journalers get sick less often
• in some cases, journaling can be as beneficial as traditional “talk therapy” for your mental health.

For some fascinating reading on the subject, check out Dr. James W. Pennebaker’s work, from which I gleaned most of the above facts. If your own writing ever brings you to tears, trust in the process and keep going. You’re probably doing something right.

On Publishing, the Internet, and Self Googling

I recently self-Googled in an attempt to see if any of my Demand Studios articles had been published. I didn’t find any of them yet, but self-Googling proved to be an enlightening experience, as always. Because I have a unique name, and because I’ve had a fairly public job for the last few years, I get over 5 pages of nothin’ but the real me when I self Google. Most of it is expected — interviews I gave while with my previous employer, blog posts I’ve written, and old college websites. But there’s always a bit of the unexpected, too, like finding out I was quoted in a Canadian blog about Catholic education.

I still remember a world without the Internet. As an adolescent, I wrote fan-fiction before I knew that fan-fiction even had a name. The first time I logged on at the age of 15, I was astounded and delighted to learn I wasn’t the only person in the world who wrote stories about characters I loved. I immediately began dreaming of a way to publish my fan-fiction online, thinking that “being online is almost as good as being published.” And for a 15-year-old in a rural area, it was. I wasn’t concerned so much with seeing my name in print or getting paid for my stories as I was with the ability to share them with readers. The Internet allowed me to do that–albeit under a fake name, as I was very ‘net cautious.

It has me thinking about how writing is a constant process of unraveling layers to get closer to the truth. The first layer, and often the hardest, is putting form to the thoughts twisting in your mind or beating in your heart. After that, there’s further unraveling when you share what you’ve written, and then again when you share it under your real name, and yes, again when you share it with the world by saying it on the Internet or putting it in print. The ‘net is currently buzzing about a man who lost his job through indescriminate Twittering, and while I like to pat myself on the back and believe I’m more savvy than that, sometimes even I–the girl who once wouldn’t even share my first name online–forget that there are some secrets I just have to let go of after speaking up about them just once online. It makes me realize that publishing, online or elsewhere, is a constant challenge to be brave enough to stand behind what you’ve said — at least, if you have an uncommon name.

Step One, Intimacy; Step Two, Distance

I’d like to follow up on yesterday’s post about the vulnerability of putting a lot of “yourself” into your writing. I think that the blurred boundary between self and characters during the writing process is incredibly beneficial. Why would you keep returning to these characters again and again if you weren’t personally invested in them? If you think of them as extensions of yourself, or as your “children,” the thought of neglecting them is rather painful, immoral, even. This is all good. It also ties into my advocacy of honest writing. If you’re truly being honest, sharing your work is going to feel a little scary, whether it’s a first draft of a novel or a letter to the editor.

This kind of intimacy and blurred boundaries are less healthy when revising. That’s why part two of my advice is this: when the first draft’s been written, allow yourself distance. Accept the reality that those characters are NOT you, nor are they your children. When someone doesn’t like what you’ve written, or when a writing buddy does an honest critique — good, bad, and ugly — they are not disliking or criticizing you. Just as a child must “grow up” and learn to differentiate herself from her parents, your writing must “grow up” to exist without you.

So rather than get defensive when someone says something seems unbelievable (“What do you mean?!? That’s how it really happened!!”) or when someone points out that a character comes across as whiny (“What?!? I am NOT a whiner!!!”), take a step back. Don’t jump in to defend yourself or your character-extension-of-self. Let the critique settle with you–it will point you to the truths you might have been too close to the situation to see. Just as the “customer is always right,” the “reader is often right.” Sure, you’ll get readers here and there who clearly want something totally different than what you’ve written, and you have to take their feedback with a grain of salt. Yes, as the writer, you have the ultimate say over what you’ll change and what you won’t (I know I’ve certainly dug my heels in on certain points). But if the reader is telling you she doesn’t buy it, listen. And listen well.

At the end of the Mary Sue Litmus Test, there’s a question that asks, “Do you think of your characters more like tools than like friends/children?” This question has stuck with me since I first read it. Yes, think of your characters as friends and children to motivate you to spend SO much time with them. But after the initial draft, remember that they ultimately are tools, to be wielded and refined as you see fit, for that all-important task of telling your story.

Your Words, Your Soul

I was never  one of those writers who was shy about sharing my work. I knew I was a good writer, and I wanted other people to know it, too. Perhaps it was because fantasy was the first genre I wrote in seriously; you can write about yourself via fantasy as well as you can write about yourself in any genre, but it’s much easier to disguise. My first novel was completely about me not fitting in at school, although I didn’t consciously realize that at the time. I just thought I was writing a novel about a girl who was kidnapped and taken far from everything she loved. This subconscious use of metaphor has kept me from that vulnerable feeling a lot of writers get when they share their work, that feeling that they’re “putting their soul” out there.

But the more I wrote, the closer I got to exploring what was really close to my heart. Until last month, it finally happened: I ended up writing an “autobiographical” novel.

I used to always wonder about authors who did that. I could understand using your own life as material, but it had never seemed to work for me. Nothing in my life seemed interesting enough, and with your own life, you have SO much material that I didn’t know how you’d decide where the memories ended and the fiction began. When I first got the idea for the novel I just ‘finished’ in November, I didn’t know how much it would be about me. It’s still speculative fiction, so metaphor still figures prominently, and the parts of the story that came to me first were the parts that are not autobiographical. But as I continued to chip away at the story, looking for the proper catalyst for the events I wanted to write about, I realized that my memories were enough. I was going to go for it.

I meet with my writers’ group this Thursday, which means I sent the beginning of this draft to them last Thursday. There have been times in the past when I’ve felt nervous about whatever I was submitting for the month, but never have I felt the kind of fear I felt last Thursday. It’s a good thing I’ve been with this group for years, because when I hit ‘send’, I knew I wasn’t just trusting them with my words; I was trusting them with my soul. (But I still anticipate an honest critique — this will be the first, very necessary, chance for someone to take the crowbar and pry me away from the story, so that the REAL work can begin.)

Let’s Get Personal

The essay I wrote for Bi-Women, “Kids Keep me Kloseted,” will be published in the December newsletter and possibly online. The irony that I’m publishing a piece about being closeted is not lost on me. As I was polishing the article earlier this week, I had a quick moment of panic, in which I thought, I can’t submit this, followed by, I WILL submit it, and if it gets accepted, I’ll ask to use a pen name. (It’s not actually as juicy as all that. If it does go up online, I’ll link it here so you can be wildly disappointed).

I got an email yesterday from the editor asking how I’d like my name to appear in the print and online version. The moment of truth.

I just sent my response. I’m using my real name.

But this does bring up an issue that most writers — and I would say ALL writers who write from their deepest truth — face at some point. If your novel is based on your childhood, will you have to edit the characters your family and friends might recognize? If you’re writing a tell-all memoir, can you really tell-all? How “personal” should you get in a personal essay?

My answer? Don’t let anything keep you from your Truth, even if it doesn’t make other people look pretty. Even if it does air some dirty laundry. Even if it does express your opinions and secrets and passions in a way you’d never dare to do out loud.

But what if Aunt Ethel picks it up, and makes the connection that you think she smells like pickle juice, and never sends you a birthday card again?

That, my friends, is a very good problem to have. Because that means you’ve been published.

All writers deal with this a little differently. Annie Dillard shows her memoirs and essays to everyone mentioned before she publishes them (which some of my professors thought made her a “sell out” of sorts; I don’t agree). Some people use pen names. Others probably disguise or cut more than we could ever possibly know; most of what we see, after all, is on the other side of publication.

When you’re writing your first few drafts, don’t let anything interfere with your honesty. What you write doesn’t have to be accurate (did Mom really always favor Sis over you?), but it has to be true (why yes, it certainly felt that way). A writer’s truth is not a scientist’s truth. You know it when you feel it, and as hard as it is to put to paper (or screen), you wouldn’t be a writer if you weren’t willing to be that bold.

Right now, the novel I’m writing for NaNoWriMo (of which I wrote a whole big, fat, 0 words today!) is more heavily based on my own childhood than anything I’ve written before. It’s still fiction. I stretch the truth all over the place. But there are a lot of pieces in there my family and childhood friends would recognize. And letting them read this novel could get a little messy.

And that is a problem for another day. Now, my job is to write, and to write as boldly and truthfully as I can. Eventually, I’ll submit. And if publication ever becomes a real possibility, then I will re-examine the very hard question about whether I can dare to put a piece so heavy with my own truth out there. I am very much looking forward to facing that very hard question again and again. In the meantime, I’ll continue to practice being bold, in preparation.