When I read Kelly Corrigan’s New York Times’ Guest Essay — How to Let Go of Your Irreplaceable, Unstoppable Daughter — I felt her internal struggle. I don’t have a child heading to college (my twins will be 10 next month), but if I swapped out her daughter, a human being, for one of my essays, well, the same principle applies.
“I made you, but you don’t belong to me.”
My work as a writer isn’t my own. It doesn’t belong to the editor either. Instead, stories take on a life of their own. Like a great wine, they develop and evolve over time — and in response to everyone who touches them.
The Evolution of Story
Most of us have no idea who we are until our frontal lobes mature and we have time to explore where we came from and what we really want. That journey of self-discovery takes time.
The same can be true of a piece of writing. When you first put pen to page, you may think you know where you’re headed only to discover in draft 4 (or 14) that the message you intended to convey isn’t the point of the story after all. Maybe you began writing and discovered your universal theme wasn’t what you thought. Or maybe you started out with a personal essay and learned that a reported piece would be more compelling.
Take my recent Wired story about keeping my family connected to my late father through song. The piece didn’t start out as a reported essay. A few months after my dad died, I crafted a narrative piece focused on the idea that my youngest son’s passion for Neil Diamond could serve as a sort of vehicle to connect him with my father. It was a personal narrative that was almost saccharine in its message. Maybe even too sweet to sell.
The story evolved when I started brainstorming ideas for Wired. I had several writer friends tell me that Alan Henry is a dream to work with and I wanted to join his stable of contributors. So … the straightforward narrative essay about Neil became an opening anecdote for a reported essay about how to connect family members through a digital playlist.
The Editor’s Take
Just like every teacher, coach, scout leader and future love interest shapes and molds your kids, every person who touches your writing, will leave a mark, for better or worse.
Recently, one of my students, Julie Zigoris, penned a story tied to the 20th anniversary of 9/11 that included her experience of living through CA wildfires. She submitted the piece to The Boston Globe. But the editors wanted Julie to concentrate solely on wildfires and climate distress. Julie dug deeper into the topic and interviewed a cadre of experts. So what started out as a story about triggering memories from 9/11 and how they relate to the current climate crisis, turned into a reported essay about ecopsychology — with no reference to the terrorist attack.
But here’s the thing: Despite the significant overhaul, and additional research and reporting, Julie was happy with the final product. And if writing is therapy, as I’ve so often suggested, this opportunity to revisit September 11, 2001, was intense for Julie, but also healing. “I ended up sharing the original version on my personal website on the day of the 20th anniversary,” she says.
The Audience’s Response
And, when your children go out into the world, they develop a life of their own …
When another student, Kelly James, published a story in Huffington Post about the sudden death of her ex-husband and co-parent, she received dozens of emails from parents in similar situations — and in true Kelly form, responded to all of them. “I have touched a lot people and that is SO FREAKIN’ GRATIFYING,” she says. She even received fan mail from Katie Couric, who signed off with “I’m glad you got your colonoscopy!”
Kelly’s sense of loss comes through in the piece. It’s palpable. And in sharing how scared and vulnerable she feels — her truth — she helped so many other people feel “okay” about not being okay.
The point: Once you release your story into the world, it takes on a life of its’ own, touching people and impacting them in ways you have no knowledge or control over. Gemma Hartley got a book deal when her piece about emotional labor went viral. Matthew Teague’s essay about his best friend moving in when Teague’s wife was dying of cancer became the movie Our Friend starring Casey Affleck, Jason Segal and Dakota Johnson. And Stephanie Land’s “Maid” became a Netflix series.
Me? I’m not-so-secretly hoping that Neil Diamond’s people will read my piece and send me and Jack tickets to “A Beautiful Noise” when the musical debuts in Boston next summer before heading to Broadway. My twins are over Neil (I know, I know, is that even possible?). But since Jack goes to a separate school, we listen to “Cracklin’ Rose,” “Money Talks,” “Sweet Caroline,” “Song Sung Blue” …for the entire 30-minute commute, five days a week. And since his brothers aren’t in the car for that leg, no one is complaining.