Why did I write Trapped
Occasionally, puzzled people have asked, abruptly, why did I write Trapped. Why did I pursue my dream of publication? Do I not object to the invasion of my privacy and the laying bare of my intimate life?
Yes, well. I always felt I could write, comfortably enough to attract an enthusiastic A+ in essay writing from a stiff and challenging teacher with a soft centre: ‘excellent story, Fran, but I can’t think WHAT has happened to your handwriting!’ I have always written, and eventually it became obvious (probably because I could not fritter away my time being a barmaid or a waitress) that I should stop chasing after what I would never be able to do, and focus on what I could do. It seemed silly to pretend that writing was frivolous and unimportant, especially as I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I enjoy it.
I got to forty, and thought, hey, I’ve arrived, and getting old seems to be the world’s best kept secret. I became even more sedate and withdrawn, dignified, as a forty-year-old thinks she has to be. But as I cranked up some steam into the following decade, I knew I was hiding, and that my personal silence was much less important than finally – finally – letting my family discover who I was, and that I really, really love them. My parents grow frailer, my siblings have their own issues and challenges, and my husband and daughter could do with a few more clues about me. I thought it might be helpful if I could maybe throw some love and understanding their way: come to terms, discard those grudges that go back years, empty out the pot of resentment and clear away the backlog of mistaken assumptions. Writing helps with all these aspects of growing up. The process of learning to write and having the courage to publish is in itself so rewarding, that even if I knew then, what I know now (how long it would take, how much pain there would be) I would still accept the challenge. A bit of discomfort is never a reason to shy away from home truths.
In case you missed it, here is an interview with Claire Wingfield which was first published on 29th September on her blog. Please visit her blog, comment and share. And thanks for reading this.
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November 17, 2014 @ 1:53 pm
As ever you humble me with your grace and courage. xx
November 17, 2014 @ 2:15 pm
Thanks, Diane. I love you, too! xxx 😀
November 17, 2014 @ 6:33 pm
Oh Fran I wish I had your eloquence. I received some flack recently for publishing my book. What really hurt, the criticism was from my best friend who I suppose felt she could be honest with me. She’d started reading my book, with reluctance it has to be said, and she didn’t think she would be able to finish reading it because it distressed her that I was “Washing my dirty linen in public.”. It shouldn’t have hurt me, this is the dog lover who won’t read ‘Marley and Me’ because “I know it will upset me.” I wish I could have used some of your reasoning, you’ve said a lot of what I wanted to say. All I could manage was “Don’t read it then, nobody’s putting a gun to your head.” I was miffed. Do you think she noticed?
November 17, 2014 @ 7:54 pm
I wonder if she just does not like to read about subjects which are painful, and too close to the bone. Some people, especially resent being reminded of growing older, and their reactions of disinterest, or dislike, of fear and even of revulsion are based in the fear that this might happen to them, and that they will become incapacitated and unable to be themselves. I think that must be a very disabling fear for some, which will result in them shying away, closing the shutters.
You have not been ‘washing your dirty linen in public’. Your linen was always spotlessly clean, I am sure, and you have written with immense dignity and courage about your struggle for recognition and assistance. There is nothing shameful about that whatsoever, and I hope you can accept that your narrative, and your eventual success is an eye-opening, timely and valuable contribution.
We can never understand why people react as they do, not really. But I know your motives are and were based in love.
Bless you! xxxx 😀
November 18, 2014 @ 12:29 pm
This is so interesting to me ladies, I would say that i think others reactions say more about them than what they think of you. I have to say, (coming from a person who has always fantasised about writing my story), I think the cathartic renditions and thoughts are a great, great comfort to readers. i don’t mean a comfort in the sense that I am pleased about what you went through and it wasn’t me, or that it also happened to me and I’m not alone, but a comfort to hear the voice of other human frailties and honesties and above all, triumphs. I wrote a letter to a member of my family that was an honest account of my hurts that they had projected upon me since my childhood and I was mainly coming from a point of praise for their achievements and whether we could grow together not apart. Yet, sadly, I have been rebuked, have apparently written ‘hate mail’ and I actually feel quite numb about it all. I never thought I could change their thinking (or denial), but I have to lay my demons to rest and be kind and offer my love. I am more sad about their inclusion and ignoring of my parents, as if they are involved. I’m in my forties too and i think finally, I am becoming stronger and growing into myself with acceptance…..thank you for your books, they speak more than the words on the pages…..xxx
November 18, 2014 @ 1:16 pm
Thank you too, Fleur, for sharing. As you say, a rebuke teaches us much, about our own motivations and about the frailties of others. And in those circumstances, it is hard not to judge. But we are allowed to feel sorrow, and to grieve.
Which gives me the idea to write more about grieving tomorrow, in my next post about Why. We shall see. Thanks for all your support, everyone. You make me smile. XXX 😀
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