Person on the Page

At a writing workshop I attended a few years ago, the facilitator gave us this prompt: Write about something that your family would object to you writing about.  Some workshop participants expressed discomfort with this assignment.  Most hesitated before beginning to write.

Their reluctance was understandable because we were being asked to open a long-locked door, to reach into the dark space within us where secrets about ourselves and our families are kept, to pull something out of there, and shine a light on it. And we just don’t do that. 

One problem with writing about our secrets is that many of us are taught to put our best foot forward, to present ourselves as virtuous, likable, admirable—that is, perfect—to others. Our first impulse may be to avoid exposing our faults or describing our difficult circumstances in our writing. 

Another problem is that writing about a family secret in particular involves the image and reputation of others, people whose lives our writing may affect. It may threaten the stability of the family itself.  Family bonds are maintained through shared history, love and affection, mutual support—and kept secrets.

In his blog post titled “Close to the Bone,” Lee Martin writes, “What’s a family secret you wouldn’t want known?  Tell the story of it. Be ruthless. Tell it all no matter how ugly it is. Feel what it’s like to write close to the bone.” Martin refers primarily to writing fiction, but should we not feel justified in applying the same ruthless honesty in nonfiction?

What if our family secrets involve wrongs commited against us by a family member, an abuse when we were children, a trauma inflicted upon us by those expected to care for and support us? In those cases, do we not have the right to write?  We do, for a number of reasons.

1.  We have a right to tell what is ultimately our own story.  We are, after all, members of the family in which a secret has been kept.  The family secret is our secret.  It is ours to tell.  If we cannot tell it, can we be fully ourselves?

2.  Writing about a painful secret could lead us toward healing.  Especially in the case of child abuse or childhood traumas, telling the story is essential to the survivor’s ability to exert a degree of control over past events and eventually to regain a sense of wholeness.  So whether we write for readers or for therapeutic purposes, the writing itself may help us to heal.

3.  Writing about family secrets could help others.  Our own willingness to share the painful aspects of our lives on the page may allow readers to identify with our experiences and thereby to cope with and to work toward healing from their own.

4.  Diving in and exploring life’s complexities enriches our lives. Taking on difficult subjects in writing in order to increase our own and our readers’ understanding of our shared human circumstances gives our lives and our writing meaning.

5.  Writing allows us to turn painful experiences into art.  We can take difficult life events and use them to create an aesthetically pleasing text.  We can take what is ugly in our lives and turn it into something beautiful.

Of course, the repurcussions from writing about family secrets may be severe.  Do the benefits justify the cost?  We must all answer this question for ourselves. 

Be ruthless, Martin advises.  Be willing “to say the hard things, to lay oneself open.”  Difficult to do, yes, but taking on difficult subjects and revealing our vulnerability and fallibility on the page may result in our best, most engaging writing.  

Don’t hesitate to exercise your right to write.