The Shit No One Tells You About Writing

Writing Stories That Hurt
Lucy E.M. Black

When my first short story collection came out in 2017, there were accolades, to be sure. However, one
friend responded with, “It was so depressing, it made me want to slit my wrists. Like seriously, people
read to be entertained, not become suicidal.” Subsequently, said friend has steadfastly refused to read
anything else that I have written. In defense of my own work, the stories in the collection were about
the impact of dislocation on women’s lives, and while most of the pieces documented deeply difficult
struggles, they were also, in their own way, quite hopeful. However, that critique, more than any of the
positive reviews I have received over the years, cut deeply. It has made me hesitate to write stories that
hurt.

There are many reasons people read books and, I would argue, entertainment is only one of several
driving forces. Many readers engage with story to relieve stress, while others read as a way to develop
their knowledge and to become better informed about the world. Still others read for vicarious reasons
– the opportunity to escape into other worlds and lives. Reading is also said to help sharpen memory
and one’s ability to empathize by providing practice opportunities. If we truly believe that reading
serves these many purposes, then we must also recognize the necessity to share stories that are
reflective of the whole spectrum of our life experiences. And some of those stories hurt. They hurt to
write and they hurt to read. But that does not mean we should shy away from writing them.

Maya Angelou is purported to have said, There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside
you. And I think her words apply particularly to those stories we feel compelled to share but know may
be triggering or upsetting to others. So, the challenge for writers is to find ways of addressing difficult
topics without traumatizing readers or hurting themselves in the process.

Years ago, I wrote and published a short story called A Love Story. We had recently been in Ireland and I
had noticed the National Maternity Hospital in Dublin. A family member told me a little of its history
regarding a controversial procedure practiced there known as symphysiotomy. The procedure involved

cutting the pubic symphysis bone that holds the pelvis together in order to widen the birth canal during
labor. The procedure was typically done without anesthetic, utilizing crude instruments and without the
patient’s consent. Approximately 1500 women in Ireland were subjected to this brutal alternative to a
caesarean during a forty-year period from the 1940s through to 1984. Lasting damage was done to
women’s bodies, leaving them incontinent, struggling with life-long pain, and experiencing difficulty
walking. A group of survivors filed a complaint against the Irish government with the United Nations.
The group alleged that the government had been complicit in state-sanctioned torture against women:
On 14 August, 2014, the UN Human Rights Committee found that symphysiotomy, a childbirth
operation that severs one of the main pelvic joints and unhinges the pelvis, was performed
without the consent of the 1,500 women and girls upon whom it was perpetrated, that they
sustained damage as a result of these operations and that, under Article 7 of the Covenant, the
practice constituted or may have constituted torture or cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment
and involuntary medical experimentation. (SoS submission to UNHRC under ICCPR review (ccprcentre.org)
I returned to Canada from our trip and read the transcripts of the United Nations trial. The victim
testimonies were horrifying and I wept while reading them. I was eventually able to distill the material
into a fictional narrative that attempted to capture some of the pathos and trauma of those who had
suffered in this way:
She remembered the room, its chill, the white tiles, and the feel of her bare feet in the stirrups.
The nuns had held her down while the doctor and his assistant took her leg and savagely pulled it
sideways until something in her hip popped and she felt her insides ripping. She passed out from
the pain. When she awoke, she saw that she was alone in the same strange white room, now
splattered bright red. She could not move. A coarse sheet had been pulled up over her mouth to
her nose. She tried to call out but her mouth filled with cotton. She felt herself choking… (A Love
Story, The Marzipan Fruit Basket, 2017)

Since writing that piece, I have learned a few things about how to confront and navigate
difficult material. First of all, I have to feel convinced in myself that I have done the research
and the work, and am reasonably knowledgeable. I also have to feel that I have the right to tell
the story in order to amplify the issue. Getting to this point involves reflecting deeply about the
issues, and deciding whether or not I am qualified to share them in a way that honours the
individuals and their history. I also have to ask myself if I’m equipped to do the emotional work
of giving voice to something painful.

Beyond those essential requirements, I must resolve whether or not the story deserves to be
told. There are so many stories unfolding around us every day that we need to be selective
about those we choose to share, embarking upon our creative work with trust and respect for
both the content and the reader. Balancing these thoughts against a sense of purpose in our
writing is essential. When writing about symphysiotomy, for instance, my intention was to
share a little-known history of cruelty against women. There is a certain smugness in North
America when discussing female genital mutilation and it seemed to me that exposing a
relatively recent example that came from a Western context, and was equally barbarous, might
contribute significantly to a dialogue exploring violations against girls and women.

The use of creative non-fiction is, for me, a particularly useful technique for documenting and
honouring the truth while maintaining the privacy of individuals. Hence, the creation of
fictional characters in A Love Story whom embody the anticipation and joy of childbirth, and
their subsequent devastation as the destructiveness of the post-symphysiotomy reality is felt.
Having said that, I hope that I did so without imposing unnecessary or gratuitous violence on
the reader. For instance, I did not describe the actual sawing of the bone with a crude hacksaw
but I did provide a glimpse of the waiting husband:

He watched through the glass on the doors as the doctor came down the stairs and
approached him with news of his daughter. Days later, he would remember the fine
spray of blood on the doctor’s eyeglasses.

Rather than being salacious, it was my hope that this small detail, taken from a real account,
would hint at the horror. My goal was to have the reader care for my characters, without
overwhelming them, in order that they would in turn, reflect upon and care about the historic
events. We are fortunate in that we have so many tools in our writer’s bag of tricks to
facilitate the writing of powerful narratives once we move them from the realm of factual
reporting into the realm of fiction.

Emily Dickinson is supposed to have said, write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
But we know that untarnished love stories are only one small component in the broad panoply
of life experiences. Sometimes, it is through the sharing of stories that hurt that we can feel
inspired and empowered, and in turn, develop perspective on our own situations and perhaps
even a sense of catharsis. Stories that hurt can provide emotional healing, document important
historic events in ways that resonate, spur advocacy and empowerment. 