From grief to memoir: My writing journey (part 1)

I knew I’d write a book as soon as my son died. It didn’t come to me, an idea in the night. It was something I just knew. And I knew it would be a book of hope. In the years prior to his death, I had discovered hope in the way a drowning person discovers a life raft, and I wasn’t prepared to let go of it now. For the first two years of writing, I had no idea how I’d make the book hopeful, but I always knew I would. I was committed to writing my way, word by word, from tragedy to hope so I could share that with others.

There were times I almost gave up, and I did pack it in a few times, twice with some sincerity. I had absolutely no understanding of what a long, difficult, heart-rending, frustrating, humility-building, fulfilling, life-changing, love-filled process it would be. Ignorance of the difficulties was probably a good thing—I could carry on blindly, not knowing that obstacles waited around every corner. Early on, ignorance of the enriching aspects of writing was not so good—that made it harder to put in the effort needed to navigate those obstacles. But writing is like exercising: the more I did it, the more I felt the rewards, the more often I showed up, the more easily I could jump the hurdles.

It took me a year-and-a-half to move from knowing I’d write the book, and occasionally jotting down ideas and cathartic semi-coherent ramblings, to actually getting started in an organized way. I needed to improve my skills, so I took creative writing courses through SFU’s Continuing Studies where I met two women who have been my critique partners ever since. With very few exceptions, the three of us have met weekly over the past four years (in-person pre-covid, online ever since) to check in, write for two hours, read our writing to each other, and get and provide feedback. That regular, non-negotiable writing time with accountability partners has been the engine that has kept me moving forward. Around the same time, I also discovered the Facebook group, Canada Writes, a community of Canadian writers who I’ve turned to for support, advice, resources, and feedback many times over the years.

I began by writing short stories and scenes that I thought may belong in my book. I wasn’t constrained by chronology; I didn’t have any over-arching storyline other than my life, itself. In fact, it soon became clear I had no idea how to create a full-length memoir. On the recommendation of a friend, I joined The Narrative Project’s Get Your Book Done program, a part-time online writing program designed for people exactly like me—people with desire and drive, but absolutely no clue how to write a book. It combined coaching and workshopping with lessons on story structure and craft. Participants were of all ages and all levels of writing experience, and we learned and grew as writers together over the nine-month program.

During that program, I was accepted into the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity summer literary retreat which provided me with two weeks of supported solitude where I did nothing but walk, write, eat, sleep, and get feedback from a writing mentor. I wrote more in those two weeks than I had in the previous six months and, for the first time, I felt in my heart that I’d get this book done.

Writing a trauma-based memoir has its own emotional challenges. It is incredibly cathartic but can be painful, even retraumatizing, at times. It was for me. I needed to take it slow and be gentle with myself. The coaches at The Narrative Project were outstandingly supportive, and created a safe space in which I could explore my emotions as well as my writing. I didn’t write scenes in a linear way. I wrote what I could, when I could, and stitched them together into a story of sorts. Later, sometimes years later, I would find the courage to write more deeply into a painful area and then I would find a way to insert that into the story. Early in the process, the happiest memories were the hardest to write about—I was still so early in my grief that my heart couldn’t bear knowing that there’d be no new happy memories with him in my future. Later, my challenge was to acknowledge and accept the trauma my son experienced. These emotional challenges were where my growth came from, if not as a writer, then certainly as a person. I’m fortunate to have been able to write through my tears and discover myself on the other side.

At the end of Get Your Book Done program, I had a complete first draft. “First shitty draft” the coaches liked to call our first attempts to get words on the page. And it was. Shitty. It had dual timelines that switched unpredictably between pre- and post-recovery events, and ended with my son’s death. I sent that draft (pared down to 120,000 words, or about a 480-page book!) to a dozen beta readers who, God love them, managed to find enough good things to say to keep me from moving to the Antarctica to live with penguins, while communicating the two things that I really needed to know: my attempt at dual timelines was a dismal failure, and the ending was not an ending that anyone wanted to end with. I couldn’t blame them. I hadn’t wanted that ending either, but there it was.

I let the manuscript sit untended, heavy within me, for a few months.

When I was ready to dust myself, and my manuscript, off I knew I needed help. I’d loved connecting with the coaches and other writers in The Narrative Project, but that was an online program based in the US, and I craved a local in-person writing community. I applied to, and was accepted into, SFU’s The Writer’s Studio, a competitive part-time, year-long, in-person creative writing program. I was thrilled! Writers in the program worked across genres and my non-fiction cohort were inspired writers with interesting stories and incredible talent. My mentor was brilliant, but he didn’t know my story and his critique style seemed brash compared to the fuzzy-supportive-warmth I was used to from The Narrative Project’s coaches. When covid hit, just two months into the program, the Writer’s Studio moved online with all the bumps inevitable with a sudden shift in technology and process. I jumped ship. If I needed to work online, I’d rather do it with people I knew and loved. I quit The Writer’s Studio and joined The Narrative Project’s Next Chapter program, designed to get a first draft ready for publication.

Over the next nine months, I came to terms with, and eventually embraced, my personal writing style and voice: clear, simple, transparent. I had dreamed of being literary. I had wanted to use complicated story structures in new and surprising ways. I had wanted to describe grass in a way that moved readers to stop in awe and reread my description for the sheer pleasure of the words and insight they brought. But my style was more like: “the grass was green”. I blamed it on my background as a technical writer, and it hurt to know I’d never be a literary genius, but embracing the simplicity of my writing style liberated me to make the best possible book that I could make.

I pulled the dual timeline apart and arranged things chronologically. I slashed 50,000 words (I couldn’t look, I could barely breathe, it hurt so much!) and then wrote another 40,000 words extending the story beyond my son’s death, delving into my grief and all that came with it. I revised the manuscript to smooth it out, eliminating the occasional and incongruent artful phrases in favour of my new simplicity. I got rid of any language that obscured the story. I was equally proud and dismayed when I discovered I had written the book at a grade five reading level.

Was my manuscript finally ready to go out into the world? Not quite. It was still 10,000 words longer than the 100,000 words I was told was the absolute maximum for a memoir about an unknown person, by an unknown writer. And I couldn’t cut anymore.

So, I hired an editor who helped me recognize overly-wordy patterns in my writing, and we cut out 7,000 words. Close enough! Four years after I began jotting down ideas, and two-and-a-half years after I began writing in earnest, I was ready to turn my attention to writing my proposal and querying agents.

Now that turned out to be a whole new adventure!

I learned a lot in the process of writing a memoir. I’ll be sharing my top take-aways in my next blog—stay tuned!