Photo by Suzanne D. Williams on Unsplash

Today’s guest post is by Maggie Langrick, publisher at Wonderwell Press.

Breast cancer. Bereavement. Addiction. Abuse.

When I first started writing, the stories that rushed forth were my “greatest hits” of life-altering experiences, most of them traumatic. These were the core memories I could not stop thinking about and felt compelled to put into words. But would anyone ever want to read these stories? Did I even want to share them publicly? And if not, was writing them a waste of time?

A few weeks ago, I sat with a client who was stuck at a similar impasse with her memoir. Should she try to publish it and risk blowback or, worse, indifference? Or should she stick it in a drawer and chalk it up as a therapeutic exercise? As a creativity coach, I see so many writers grapple with this dilemma, I would say it is not just common but close to universal.

There’s nothing wrong with publishing a trauma story—countless beloved works of art have sprung from their makers’ pain and suffering. But, especially for the new writer, the seemingly sensible question “to publish or not to publish?” is the wrong question to start with. That’s because the psycho-social implications of publishing these intimate stories is daunting. Weighing this decision can plunge you into creative paralysis and prevent you from writing them (or anything else) at all. You might wonder: What if my family excommunicates me? What if my ex-partner sues me? Or even just gets mad?

Instead, consider that the best, little-understood argument for writing these stories is that they aid in your development as a writer. The obsession we feel for our trauma stories can be a powerful engine that pulls us through the early stage of our writing life, when confidence is low and motivation may be shaky. Writing is hard at first, for everyone. But when you are gripped by a particular story, you are more likely to stick with it all the way to completion.

Trauma stories can also sharpen our discernment because they tend to conjure a clear vision. Fiction offers a limitless world of potential directions to the storyteller. It’s easy to roam and lose focus, especially when new to the writing practice. But when you’re writing about a painful experience that you lived through, the imprint of those experiences is often as fresh as the day they occurred. As hard as it can be to put words around these stories, you know when you have hit truth. That kind of clarity is a creative superpower that can be harder to access when you’re writing from the intellect and imagination rather than from the gut.

Lastly, trauma stories beckon you to wade into more artistically ambitious waters. Because it holds layers of meaning that may be hard to convey through straight exposition, a big, hard, important story can embolden you to experiment with more creative forms of writing—an extended metaphor, a seldom-seen POV, or a poetic structure. You are not writing this merely to chronicle the events as if giving a deposition; you want to get at the deeper meaning and impact of those events. Articulating a complex meaning is the very essence of what it means to make art.

If the above benefits to your creative development don’t persuade you of the value of writing your trauma narratives, consider this: Undertaking this challenging work can open the door to the more varied stories you will write next. The themes you discover in your personal writing often persist throughout your writing life, and evolve in your future body of work—but first you must be willing to venture into them. In this way, trauma narratives are like colostrum, the “first milk” that comes through a postpartum breast. It is thick and strange, nourishing and essential. And it must be expressed before the everyday milk behind it can flow. Sometimes you simply have to get your trauma narrative off your chest before the rest of your life’s work can come through.

Trauma writing remains some of the most compelling work ever written and read. You may indeed publish your story in a memoir, or an essay collection, or simply a single short story. If so, that’s wonderful. Or you may tuck it away where no eyes will ever land on it. If so, this is also wonderful.

Don’t shy away from these stories. Put the publication decision aside for now, if that helps you move forward. Let yourself be healed by the experience of writing them, and let them show you the depth and breadth of the writing you’re capable of.