On Relationship Writing

Romance and relationships are often seen as overwritten subjects. Because my thesis has turned from an almost-completely-straight-non-fiction endeavor to memoir, about these two very subjects, I am particularly drawn to how other writers have created universality through introspective voice, prioritizing not their happily-ever-afters (or, in my case, lack-of), but how they’ve made sense of their experiences.

Writers like Sam Dunn inspire female camaraderie in their work by making their subject matter more than just about men, romance, and sex, but what it means to be women, and, ultimately, human. In candidly chronicling their stories, these women give me the courage, and the permission, to write about my own humiliations, pain, and shortcomings. They remind me that women really can emerge from the shadow of men, jump off our pedestals, and burst through that glass ceiling, as well as escape from these reinforced clichés and stereotyped roles that infiltrate much of women’s literature, as well as our lives.

While the world seems over-saturated with silly love stories, it's because, when these stories are well-written, they reveal something important to us about ourselves. Eckhart Tolle, in his book The Power of Now, describes a situation with a psychologist who counseled women recently emancipated from a war-torn country. Instead of discussing the perils of war in their one-on-one sessions, the psychologist reported that most of these women began with something along the lines of, “So, there’s this guy...”

For many of us, there will always be that guy. It’s what we discover from (and of) ourselves as a result of him, and how brave we are on the page in disclosing what we’ve learned that determines the value of the experience, as well as the work that comes from it.

A woman might pick up a book like Sam Dunn’s Faith in Carlos Gomez because she is enticed by the subject matter, but she comes away with a valuable experience that calls upon her to reflect about her own life. As narrator/catalyst for the reader’s personal exploration, Sam Dunn is especially skilled in establishing herself as a layered character we love and care about. In Carlos Gomez, I don’t root for her relationship with a particular man; it’s Dunn’s journey in which I’m invested, and this is what makes the book more than chick-lit. In characterizing herself as endearing, vulnerable, and imperfect, Dunn’s journey somehow feels like my own. To create this intimacy, Dunn establishes herself as character with self-deprecation and humor, and her ability to make fun of herself exudes a charm so infectious I knew her—and loved her—by the fifth page.

By contrast, comedienne Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, which relies on shocking sex details and laugh-out-loud unexpected humor, is a good read, but does not inspire me to write. Dunn temps me to try my hand at writing my story by showing me how powerful fierce honesty and disclosure can be. Her ability to texurize her story with humiliation, even pain, adds a layer over the superficial gloss humor leaves on the page, which is why Handler entertains but can’t truly connect.

I learned from Dunn (and, in contrast, Handler) that it’s not enough to be funny or to even have a strong voice. Besides, cleverness doesn’t translate on the page if it is not paired with depth—it just becomes self-righteously annoying. In re-reading pages I workshopped last Fall (enduring Janet Fitch’s notes when I passed my pages off as fiction in her class), I see I was in Handler territory. Janet especially did not like the “character” I wrote about—me—saying this girl was superficial, unwilling to get dirty. She was absolutely right. I wrote wryly about the perils of sorority-induced hook-ups, yet, lucky me had my own fairytale ending (a long-term boyfriend), and I was on my way to produce a feel-good, throw-away, chick-lit, beach read. When the semester ended, and the boyfriend became an ex, I drastically changed my tune, for the better. I need to get gritty and uncomfortable. I want to be the type of writer Sam Dunn is, one whose female readers exclaim to themselves as they flip each page that they too have felt or experienced what she had, for better and for worse. I have to stop worrying if people like me or not (as Natasha the writer who sits in class) and commit to creating a character on the page who is real.

In order to do this, I must stop merely skimming the surface of my life in my writing. Sure, embarrassment is great material, but I can plunge deeper into even less inviting waters. I have seen changes in my work as I test my bravery. Not surprisingly, I am told my writing is better the more I recount events that are uncomfortable for me to describe. I know now I must allow vulnerability to seep into my work if I want to live up to the standard set by the women writers I so admire.

As Dunn says in Carlos Gomez, “There is no more soothing balm than female conversation, because, no matter who comes and goes, another women is there to listen, and in this way we talk our way through life.” Writers like Dunn create the type of hushed conversational bond we have with our girlfriends over coffee using the medium of literature, proving that writing about men and relationships needn’t be trivial, glib, or cutesy. In revealing their experiences through the lens of love these writers create a dialogue with their readers about what it means to be women, fostering community beyond the page. These women bravely tell the truth. They get dirty. And as a reader, I love them for it. As a writer, I’m inspired. I picture myself three months ago as my ideal reader—a young woman eager to reach a deeper place but too scared to take the leap. I am continually inspired to, as my teacher Dinah Lenney often says, “do better.”

After all, I already have.