Tags

, , ,

I’ve posted a little about some writing that I’ve been doing over the last year. It’s a biographical account of the events leading to my sister’s death, written as a novel.

I’m sure that writing it has been part of a process: one of the stages of grief, or a way of dealing with guilt and remorse, or coping with PTSD – a form of therapy, in other words. And writing it has helped me straighten out my head, a little. (I think of writing-as-therapy as something like building an extension on a house that is overflowing with all kinds of accumulated crap; only it’s mental real estate. If that makes any sense. And it’s not done because it would be kind of nice to have a conservatory or something; it’s writing to survive, because if it isn’t written, your head will splinter and burst.)

After I finished the first draft, I sent it to my father, and some of my sister’s friends, including her best friend, and even inflicted it on three of my own long-suffering friends. Of course, Pek Wan (my wife) has been reading it pretty much as I wrote it. I’ve been worried about how the people who knew and loved my sister would react to what I sent. ‘Worried’ is something of an understatement; most of the time, I felt as if I was holding my breath; the rest of the time, I just wanted to beat myself up for sending something so clumsy and insensitive.

Well, my father told me what he thought back in November. And my sister’s best friend – someone who probably knows her better than I ever could, or at least knows her in a way that her little brother never could – wrote in December: “I really liked the whole work, it really takes me back to the times I spent with Marisa and the way I feel about her.” That means more to me than I could ever express. Pek Wan, when she finished reading the first draft, said this: “If we ever have children, I want them to read this some day, so they know how amazing their aunt was.” Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt.

So, part of me thinks that I should be happy with the manuscript as it is. It’s already done more than I could have hoped when I started writing it.

But part of me thinks that my sister’s story is one that deserves to be told, better than I’m able to tell it on my own, and more people should know her, should be introduced to her, should understand something of the inspiring, brave, funny, compassionate, honest and self-sacrificing life she lived, and the way she struggled against and overcame adversities time and time again. Perhaps the book would even be published. I honestly don’t know if that’s the right thing to try to do; and I certainly wouldn’t publish it without the express permission and agreement of everyone who is part of my sister’s story.

These last two weeks have been spent going over the first draft. This month, I sent it to a literary consultant for a manuscript assessment.

The day after I sent the manuscript, I got a reply. It was a lovely reply, it really was, but the literary consultant also told me that they would not assess it. They had read the synopsis and some fragments of the manuscript, but “I’m afraid I really couldn’t read your book and write a constructive report. In all honesty, [there’s] not much any consultant could do. It’s a deeply personal account…”

It turns out I can’t even pay someone to read the manuscript.

I think I understand what the reply was trying to say; that they would be uncomfortable offering any advice or criticism, for fear of causing offence. I hope that’s what the reply means, anyway. But if it does mean that, the literary consultant is mistaken. I want criticism, I want to be told and shown how to write the story better. Why else would I send it to them? And how could they begin to judge the value of the story without reading it? And aren’t most novels or stories, in some way, to someone, a “deeply personal account”?

I’m not angry, but I am deeply confused. I’m not sure what to do next.

Perhaps it’s obvious to everyone except me: this isn’t a story that should be shared with anyone who didn’t know my sister. Perhaps I’m just being an insensitive, self-centred, spoiled brat by shoving this story in people’s faces; it’s not going to make them comfortable, it won’t change anything anyway, and it’ll only cause pain to my sister’s friends and family. I don’t know. Maybe I should just be happy that my father, and Marisa’s best friend, were generous enough to say that they liked the stupid, childish effort I made to tell the story of a truly amazing person.

✪

The holiday’s over, it’s already Monday. I’ll be going back to work in a few hours. I was going to have to put the manuscript to one side anyway. It’s like Chekhov’s gun, a burning coal in my mind, but maybe it’s time for me to grow up. And shut up.