One of the dilemmas writers have is knowing where to draw the line when writing about family. Our local writing center, Grub Street, has occasionally offered classes about how to write about family, what to do when family objects to their portrayals, and the like.
This hasn’t been something I’ve worried about in the past. My father has practically begged me to write about our family once everyone who would care about it is dead. Or more specifically, once he’s dead and doesn’t have to hear about it from everyone (this is not me being morbid, folks, I swear. My father really does talk like this). Of course, I should point out that by “family” he means “my mother’s family,” so he has less at stake here.
I do write about family, but more often, I write about things that most families wouldn’t love. Not my family. My essay just came out in the Bellevue Literary Review, and I sent my parents a copy. It’s about me. In it, I have sex. With someone who wasn’t my boyfriend. And I get sick from having sex. In a foreign country. I admit, I had a few twinges about showing it to them, but hey, I’m 43 years old. I lived a long life before I got here. They know it. Now they know it in print. It didn’t bother them at all.
But I have to wonder, now, what will my kids think. Of course I didn’t show them the essay. And I won’t. But someday, when they’re adults, they may come across it. And while I don’t mind, I have a feeling they might. My mother, the artist, frequently has made pieces with a sexual bent, and I remember when Richard, my 10th grade boyfriend, came to pick me up and asked, “Why are there French ticklers in your front hallway?” Okay, the first thing I had to do was figure out what French ticklers were. But then I was mortified. My mother was amused. (The sculpture was of this era, in case you’re curious.) I can imagine the same for my kids. I’ll be amused. They’ll be horrified.
But what about writing about the kids. An essay appeared a couple of years ago about a woman who wrote about her son’s drug addiction. He was not happy with the book, and she was lambasted by the public for writing it. Yet writing scathing things about family is nothing new. Writing things that family members get angry about is also nothing new. I feel like I’m a little inured. Again, I refer you to my mother. She’s made my family fair game in her art (it’s hard to see, but there are some pictures in here of Adam and the boy; she’s also done tons of the Tweedle Twirp); I know she expects me to do the same.
At this point, the kids say things to me like, “Are you going to blog about that?” But they’ve never read the blog. And I’d like to keep it that way for at least a little while. I’ve definitely censored myself since having kids. As bitchy as I can get, I used to be far worse. I’ve stopped singling out people who annoy me, as it was one thing when I had to worry about them hating me (I never cared). I do worry about them taking it out on my kids.
For now, I’ll keep writing. About sex. About family. About life. And I’ll try not to censor myself. Because the kids are going to need something to talk about in therapy!
