when writing isn’t just therapy
I’ve probably written the equivalent of two Animal Farm (George Orwell’s novella) since the last time I wrote to you.
It’s been an exhilarating and exhausting few days of work.
My wife and daughter have had to put up with me canceling family activities or cutting them short just so I can sneak in an extra hour or two of writing here and there.
I’ve also had to turn down meetings with ghostwriting prospects whose projects I probably would have been champing at the bit to work on a year ago.
When I do take a meeting, I can almost tell within the first few minutes if the person I’m speaking to is someone I can see myself working with. If they are not, I listen to their query, address their questions, and send them off nicely and respectfully.
I had one such meeting last week.
It’s not often that I get a request from a local; most authors I’ve worked with live in the States, the U.K., or Australia. This meeting was with a prospect from Vancouver so, out of curiosity and because the brief project synopsis they shared beforehand seemed interesting, I hopped on the call.
But within the first five minutes, I knew the project wasn’t a good fit.
“Therapy,” was the response the prospect gave me when I asked why they wanted to write a book. “I think it might help a little bit [as] kind of therapy for myself for what I went through.”
I probed a little more in the hope that the prospect would give more reasons, any other reason at all, in addition to therapy. They couldn’t.
I could also tell that the prospect was still reeling from the impact of the events they wanted to write about, considering they were just a few short months removed from when the incidents occurred. That was red flag number two.
It’s been my experience that although writing is a form of therapy, writing a book isn’t.
Writing a book is much more than therapy. It demands a whole lot more from you than rehashing events and speaking into the void while a fella sitting in a rocking chair, with a thin striped shirt on, looks at you from over the top of their glasses, as they go back and forth between making notes and playing Xs and Os on a notepad.
Specifically, memoirs, a genre that I specialize in, require so much of and from you—time, introspection, vulnerability, and a willingness to confront, reveal, and share the deepest parts of yourself publicly. As a bonus, a family member or two might be offended by the details shared when the book is eventually published.
When you throw a ghostwriter into the mix, you also have to factor in the costs of writing that book.
“I understand [...] wanting to do this as therapy, as a way to process what's happened and [...] move forward,” I remarked gently to the prospect. “[...] but I’ll be honest, hiring a ghostwriter and writing a book is an expensive way to go about therapy.”
The prospect eventually agreed that perhaps they weren’t ready for a book.
They also revealed that they had visited a therapist once for help with working through the events but they didn’t think the process was working. But they recalled, from that one session, that the therapist had suggested writing as a form of therapy so writing a book seemed like the logical next step.
I thanked them for their time, recommended that they take more time to process the events properly, ideally with the help of a professional clinical therapist, and left the door open for a future conversation when they are better prepared.
That meeting was 30 minutes of my time that I won’t get back but it was also an important reminder, for me, that there are so many people looking for a way to let off steam and process adverse lived experiences.
We all need a sounding board, especially men. We do.
We need a safe space to share what’s on our minds, process our feelings and emotions, acknowledge the lessons we have gathered from our experiences, and find a way to move forward.
Recently, I’ve resolved to use YouTube as my sounding board. It has worked so far for me. But perhaps, you need something a bit more personal and interactive—a trusted friend, a supportive group, a skilled therapist whom you, hopefully, will see more than once, or God.
Or maybe your safe space comes in the form of activity—spending an hour a week learning a new skill or hobby, working out, writing (in a journal), reading, or meditating.
Something. Anything. Well, maybe not anything. The right things; you know what I mean.
Whatever form it takes, it always helps to have a safe space to express yourself, especially when days get longer and you are a little bit busier, worse for wear, or in need of some respite.
My prospect from Vancouver isn’t the first, and won’t be the last, person to approach me with therapy as their sole purpose for writing a book. And I’m also grateful that I get to be a mini-sounding board to the authors I get to work with, who have more than one reason to write a book.
But, deep down, I know there is a better way to go about letting off steam. There has to be, and I hope you find it.
This is not a debate about just anything', he said 'but about sanity itself'
— Marcus Aurelius
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