conroy.

When I was a sophomore in college, Pat Conroy (Prince of Tides, The Great Santini) spoke to my fiction writing class. Though he writes novels, it is no secret that many of his characters are members of his family. At the time I was writing nonfiction stories with changed names that I tried to pass off as fiction ("The One About the Old Man" was my attempt to fictionalize what later became my memoir about my grandfather, At Ease).

After the talk we were allowed to ask questions. I raised my hand.

"I write a lot about my family, too. How do you write honestly about your life and family without damaging your relationship with them?"

Pat Conroy looked at me and said with a straight face, "Fuck your family."

I was shocked. I was (and still am) squeamish about the f-word - but more importantly, I have never considered putting my writing before my family. Conroy went on to describe how he had family members who hadn't spoken to him in years, how he had created family fights because of the way he'd written characters, but how he had considered that the price for writing well, and writing honestly.

I disagreed. Maybe his family (and the families of many writers) is expendable, but mine isn't. And as much as I love writing, dream of a life where all I do is write, and spend hours editing even the shortest piece, writing is not my life, nor will it ever be.

Is this a writer's death wish? Maybe. But a far more threatening death wish is the one where I put writing before my family. If that's what it takes to be a successful memoirist, then I'm truly not interested.

This doesn't mean I've abandoned memoir or personal narrative. What I've abandoned is the attitude that my art takes precedence over everything and everyone. I've learned to respectfully write about my family, and I've learned to shelve ideas and secrets that aren't mine to share. I'm extremely fortunate to have a family that is gracious and understands the tone and aim behind my writing, even if one of them shows up in a piece less than perfect. I'm also fortunate to have had a happy childhood with minimal scars (come on, it's childhood - everyone has a few scars), parents who have never been horrible to each other or their children, and siblings with whom I talk every day. Many writers come out of dysfunctional or abusive families, with few happy memories to recall, and I know that I am lucky (and rare) to never have to broach certain subjects.

However - my family is a real family, and we have our own issues, our own lives, our own pasts, our own secrets. Some of these issues make it into my writing, others don't. And this has been my decision - my mother has never said to me, "Whatever you do, don't write about that." But as a human with feelings and secrets and shame of my own, the decision is usually easy: would I want someone to write this about me?

I developed this sensibility in seventh grade. I achieved my first publication, an essay included in the high school's literary magazine, Scribbler. I had written an essay about how if I had one wish, I would wish to meet my brother, the one who was born eight years before I was, the one who died when he was ten weeks old. At the time, it never occurred to me to show the essay to my mother and ask how she would feel if I submitted the essay for publication. I had written it in secret, celebrated the B+ grade I received in secret, and submitted in secret. When it was published, I was terrified. Would my mother find out? It was something I agonized about until I was twenty-two, and wrote another essay about the day my mother told me about the son she'd lost. And then my mother did something wonderful: she gave me her blessing. She told me I could write freely about her life and her memories. And I have (two of my favorite essays are about painful situations involving my mother), but I have done so with great care. I read her my essays. I email them to her so she can process on her own. And then I ask her, "Do you mind if I submit this?" I am sure she will say no, but I always ask. Thus far she has always said no, but I know that one day she may say, "This is beautiful, but I would be humiliated if you published it," and I will be grateful I asked.

The other family member who has been uncommonly gracious is my grandmother. My grandmother is an Italian pillar of strength who took care of my grandfather and his Alzheimer's until the day he died. And then she let me write about him. I wrote a short story, then a play, then a memoir. She read the memoir and loved it, saying that as she read certain parts she thought, "That's exactly how it was." She didn't have to respond this way - there are scenes in the memoir when I take a stand against her, scenes where my father is frustrated with her, scenes where my grandfather doesn't recognize her. And yet she knows I'm not out to get her. I told the story as I saw it, and didn't hold back. But because I asked - because I told her that her opinion, as a central character in the story, truly mattered to me - she trusted the motive behind the writing.

I'm an adult. I can write whatever I want, about whomever I want, and submit wherever I want. My family knows this. But they know they are more important to me than any publication will ever be, and they know that I deeply care about how they feel when I write them into an essay. In a surprising way, this has given me more license to write. There is trust within the family, trust that one of my writing goals is not slander. And I have learned to trust that if someone in my family will be irreparably hurt by something I've written, it's best to leave it be.

Pat Conroy is successful, and his family matters are his business. But his advice to me was - and will always be - ignored. Art is one of the most beautiful gifts God has given people, but it is no substitute for people. I long for the day when I can confidently call myself a writer, but I can't be a lonely writer. I need the people around me to not only support what I write, but to be what I write. If I care enough to write about people, then I must also care enough to keep them, and in keeping them I keep myself, my world, worth writing about.