This blog about writing painful stories has a single focus. It is to encourage those who have not written seriously or published BUT WHO WANT TO to start the process with confidence.
Before I start this example for you, it is told solely to kick-start a story from your past. It could be a good memory or a painful one. In keeping with our color theme in this blog, it could be the blackest crayon in the box or it could be a red one, evoking anxiety, excitement or fear. Look at the story closely as if it had a shape and colors. Imagine it like holding a marble in your hand. Examine it all over. Do colors run straight through it or do they twist and turn? Is it chipped from misuse or is it pristine, ready to delight the next person who picks it up.
That is your story. It is either pristine, or chipped. It either has colors in patterns or the colors wrap around each other, blurring the clarity. It’s your story. It has sounds, sights, smells, emotions, responses, and all the stuff of life. Write about that. It is perfectly fine to be writing painful stories as well as happy ones. And no one ever has to see it, but you will write it as if you were there again. Let’s start with:
I don’t know what to write.
That’s a great start. You can try that. Then it might turn into:
I don’t know what to write. But I remembered a story from when I was a child that I could start writing about (since no one is going to see this anyway). Then bravely, start writing what you remember.
The following story was shared with me by a writer friend. She gave permission to share as an example of an uncomfortable story to write. Her story may encourage you to write your own.
As a little girl, I recall walking down the street in our government housing project. Those housing projects, thrown together to accommodate returning WWII soldiers and their families, were like little communes. We all knew each other. We all knew each other’s business. And we all pretended we didn’t.
The sun was out, and I was happy listening to the sound of my new shoes on the pavement. It must have been been spring because I was contrasting the happy clicking sound of my shoes against the heavy, sloshy sound of the snow boots I had worn all winter.
The orange tiger lilies my dad had planted by the front porch were beginning to come up. The yellow daffodils and purple crocus were well on their way to blooming. Spring Saturdays were celebrations in my world.
Most likely, I was singing. At 8, the world hadn’t yet eaten away at my hope, although things were definitely not well in my home. Walking down the street, getting away from it all, enjoying the sunshine, and spring sounds of birds allowed me to drift from the reality of life into the sweet, serene world of a little girl without a care in the world.
I had done that many times. Instinctively, I knew when I had to get out and away from the house. Something invited me out the door to enjoy God’s creation. Lost in the revelry of joy, I happily skipped in the sunshine toward my destination — all the way to the end of the block.
I was almost there when I heard a harsh voice say something. I looked around but didn’t immediately see anyone. Then I heard the words again. I didn’t understand what was said, but I saw him. Tommy Beck! I thought of him as a troublemaker. I wasn’t sure why. Tommy Beck never talked to me. Why was he talking to me now? What was he saying?
Poor Tommy! His voice had begun to change. At any given time he sounded like a sweet soprano or a burly lumberjack. Today he sounded like a lumberjack. There he sat smugly in the shadows of his porch, leaning back in his chair. Tommy was slightly older than I was. He lived at the end of the street in the brick four-unit apartment building with his family rather than the row houses of duplexes I lived in toward the middle of the block.
I had nothing at all to do with Tommy Beck, ever, because I was a little afraid of him for no good reason. But I did avoid him when I was walking down the street or skating on the sidewalks behind the houses. Had I seen him there, I would have turned around before I got that close.
Then he said it again and laughed a mean, little boy kind of laugh. I didn’t know the meanings of all the words, but I caught some. He was saying, “Your mom and dad … a divorce! Hahaha!”
I didn’t know what that meant. I had never heard that word before. But I knew it was bad because of the way he said it. And because it was bad, I needed to defend my parents. I shouted back, “No they aren’t!”
He repeated it. “Your parents are getting a divorce!” More of that hideous, hurtful laugh.
Now I was really afraid. Of him. Of what he said. Of what it all meant. I shouted something back as I turned, determined to slowly walk home so he didn’t know what he said affected me. I willed myself to walk slowly, even though I was having trouble catching my breath. My head was spinning with this terrible news. Whatever it meant, it was terrible.
Naturally, Tommy Beck knew because his folks had talked about it around him. And they talked to someone with whom one of my folks had recklessly shared their story.
All of a sudden, it wasn’t a beautiful day. It had turned into a gray day, and I felt chilled as I walked slowly toward home, fighting tears. My shoes no longer sounded like music on the street. My joy was gone. In that short period of time, not even knowing the what the future held, I instinctively knew my world was crumbling.
And everyone in the neighborhood already knew it but me.
The row houses, bulldozed years ago, have been replaced by new homes comprising a quiet bedroom community outside Cleveland, Ohio.
But that is where began the unraveling of my young life as I knew it. All at the age of 8
Writing a painful story brought it all back.
My friend has just given you the beginning of what it means to be writing painful stories. It can sometimes be cathartic or painful all over again. However, writing painful stories allows you to think, feel, remember on a level you may not have done for years. Or decades.
In our conversations, she said she now has a point of view that she can forgive Tommy Beck. That’s a bit of a positive outcome. By the way, that’s his real name. Her words: “Thomas Beck, if you are alive and are that particular Tommy Beck, please accept my apologies, but you were a stinker!”
This is me, as a writing coach, encouraging you, as an aspiring writer, to tackle the tough stuff. Take on the good memories. Take on the painful ones. One at a time. These events shaped you as an adult. Perhaps others can learn from your courage through writing painful stories and examine their pasts to make sense of those events in their own lives. Finding forgiveness. Finding healing. Even if you never share your story, you have gained a clearer perspective of how you felt and what really happened to you.
That healing can happen through your carefully-chosen words. Look at you! You have written something that makes a difference. Now, don’t you feel even a little bit better?
Until next time…
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