Weekend journaling prompt

The stories we share (and the ones we don’t)

A couple of places have become free at my very special residential retreat in July - you can find more information here • Our next silent sit , a companionable hour’s silence for full members, will be on Sunday 18th May, 5pm - 6pm UK.

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Last week, I spoke to a group of women writers who had experienced postpartum psychosis. They had loads of interesting questions about the publishing process, and how it feels to share stories about very difficult times.

As you’ll guess, I’m an enthusiastic advocate of sharing experiences that would otherwise be hidden - I think it’s vital that we do. Shame dissipates when we hold it between us. But equally, I think it’s important to say that we don’t have to. The act of writing - or making any art out of our suffering - is valid whether or not you show it to other people.

Sharing personal work with a public audience is not easy. A lot of the discomfort comes from the writer rather than the outside: memoirists whisper between them of the night-panics that fall upon them two weeks before publication, when it feels for all the world like you’re about to be torn apart by hyenas. That’s rarely the case - 99 per cent of contact with readers is delightful, and they’re usually grateful that you’ve put words to their own suffering. But you will also meet rudeness, dismissal, misdirected anger and simple insensitivity, and of course the mind is more attracted to that than any of the praise.

After I spoke to those writers, I wondered if I should have encouraged them to be more wary of the publication process itself. It’s seen as the gold standard for a writer, a rubber stamp that turns your worst days into something transcendent, proving their worth. But that process of pitching, editing, presenting and promoting your work can be incredibly bruising, and takes a lot of stamina. If you’re looking for validation of your experiences, this is not the best place. It’s a commercial environment, aimed at selling books. Relationships are too often fleeting and transactional, and the market is fickle. There are few protections in place for authors’ mental health.

I worry when I see writers entrusting their healing to the publishing industry. It is simply not their concern. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write about your life. Write for all you’re worth. Get every bit of it down, every nuance of your experience, every bitter feeling. But keep it safely for yourself while you recover from your winter. Separate out the idea of writing therapeutically from writing for an audience: one may feed the other, but they are two very different modes. Wait for long enough to speak about it in the past tense, when you have enough perspective to understand that any criticism and rejection is aimed at your writing (a thing you’ve done) rather than your experience (a thing you are).

I used to tell my MA students not to write books from inside the arc. While the story is still going on, it’s hard to get enough perspective to truly tell it well. We end up submitting our most fragile selves to scrutiny, and face criticism and rejection at a time in our lives when we’re already teetering. Storytelling takes patience and perspective. My advice now would be slightly different: write intensely from inside the arc; publish from a point of wisdom. That way, you’ll offer your readers something redemptive rather than pulling yourself to pieces.

That doesn’t mean you should hide from view; it’s more about maintaining control over your story. Sharing your words on a platform that gives you agency is an excellent way to find your audience, to hone your craft and to get a feel for the kind of content you are comfortable to share. Writing on Substack - to pluck an example out of the air - (kidding; it’s the best platform out there, hands-down) - will let you do things like limit comments to subscribers only, paywall your most personal material (you can always give access away for free, but you can keep a close eye on who’s reading), and delete posts that, on balance, feel a bit too exposing. You can take breaks if you need to, and swerve any gatekeeping from an industry that doesn’t always see value in minority experiences. This isn’t only an excellent training ground; it can be an entire career. I sincerely hope to see many more people taking this kind of control in the future, speaking directly to the people who so desperately need to hear their words.

None of this is intended to discourage anyone from trying to publish their memoir; in fact, we need more beautiful books that eviscerate the human condition. But it’s vital that writers enter this process with their eyes open, understanding their options, and feeling safe as they do so.

Anyway; I’ll put my soapbox away for today. This week’s journaling prompt is all about understanding the stories we want to tell, and the stories we need to keep safe.