On keeping my promise not to write about people
Privacy versus creativity
If you enjoy this newsletter, consider pressing the ❤️ button at the end of the article. It allows more people to find my work!
I find it frustrating that publishing your writing often means you lose access to privacy. To anyone uninterested in the practice of writing, maybe the solution seems obvious: stop doing it. But, for those of us who see writing as both Engaging Hobby and Occasional Life Raft, that’s not a good enough reason—nowhere near.
And yet, before I began publishing my writing online and in print five years ago, I was a relatively private person. My feelings on grief, love, dating, sex, connection and culture were things I discussed in my intimate friendships, not blog posts that could be found by someone on the sales team of a corporate job I once had. But the benefits that come with writing openly and truthfully (whether that’s career opportunities or understanding my own brain better) have always outweighed the downsides. For myself at least.
The problem is, it’s really hard to write about yourself without writing about other people. Anyone who reads this newsletter regularly will know that I frequently reference friends’ advice or thoughts—sometimes anonymised, sometimes not. This is usually benign commentary, used to bolster what I’m already saying. It’s (hopefully!) not giving anyone a hot flush of panic, or revealing anything too personal about the commenter.
Over the last couple of months, however, my urge to write has been stunted by this ethical dilemma. So much so that I’ve missed my usual Sunday newsletters because everything I wanted to write about felt so obviously attached to specific people that, in my mind, it didn’t feel fair to share.
Back in 2020, I used to publish poetry on a dedicated Instagram account. Most of it was about love—people I thought I wanted or hated; remembering glossy romantic evenings, or writing scathing takedowns of the ones who had treated me poorly. Occasionally, I’d get a message from a friend, “Is this about XXX?”, and I’d suddenly feel mortified, as though I’d imagined that no one would be able to see through my poetic prowess which was, in reality, glaringly obvious. But another part of me obviously hoped that these poems would be read by the people who inspired them, that they would understand a little better how I felt about our time together.
Years later, that urge to be understood, to reach people indirectly through writing, has dimmed.
I was having a drink with a guy the other week, and somehow (lesson learned, don’t do this lol), we ended up talking about this Substack. “What do you write about?” he asked. I paused, aware of the answer’s power to freak someone out, “Lots of things. Pop culture, people,” another pause, “relationships.” The response was predictable, “Oh shit. Don’t write about me, will you?”
I promised I wouldn’t. And aside from the above, I plan to keep that promise. But doing so is very restricting for a writer, especially one who is most interested in human nature and connection. I don’t know what the solution is, and it’s something I know a lot of writers struggle with from a moral point of view. I’m not as bold and unyielding as I used to be. I sympathise with people’s fear of being written about or exposed, even if what they’ve done to me isn’t particularly good or kind.
Some people accept, and even celebrate, that being romantically involved with a creative may result in being their “muse”. It can seem glamorous to be the Alexa Chung to an Alex Turner ballad, or to be Frank O’Hara’s Grace, After a Party. But plenty of others don’t, and I do think that, to a degree, we need to respect that, or at least consider it before we immortalise them forever.
But I will also say, some of the most memorable essays I’ve ever read have been by women who are unafraid to share their most raw and unflinching opinions on the people around them. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read this Guardian essay by Lisa Taddeo, for instance, where she goes into great detail about individuals who incited her rage when she was at her most vulnerable. If Lisa had danced too delicately around the feelings of those she includes in the piece, I wouldn't have clung to her words in some of my darker moments. Her decision to write honestly about real life wasn’t indulgence or vanity—for someone out there (me, in this instance) it was a beautiful, saving thing.
So, no neat conclusion. Time to get my nerve back? Or time to write some fiction, perhaps?
What are your thoughts on writing about other people? Are your experiences fair game, or do you feel a responsibility to keep certain things private for the sake of others?
Love this and totally a moral issue I think about all the time! For poetry, fiction and non-fiction, I find so much inspiration from my own experiences and the people around me but always question how much of another person I can put down on page. I think I've come up with my own set of boundaries, person by person and dependent on the situation, for what I think is fair and kind, but honestly there are some huge things I'd love to write about openly but there are just too many details towards other people that I wouldn't feel fair sharing.
Also MORTIFYING when people think a poem is about them and it's ABSOLUTELY NOT
This is such a hard dilemma! I'm one of those people who loves reading others write detailed opinions and descriptions of their lives but I cannot do that about my own life. I'd be too stressed that the people I write about finds my writing and reaches out 😂.