Ask Clare: How I set my boundaries as a writer

Plus, three things to bear in mind if you want to write about trauma

Welcome to Life after Trauma; I’m Clare Egan. We’re currently taking part in The Artist’s Way, a community exploration of the intersection of creativity and recovery. You are so welcome to join us. We’re taking our first rest/integration week right now, but I’ll be sharing my reflections on Chapter 4 next Tuesday. We’re also gathering for our first virtual meeting on Sunday, 30th March at 1pm Dublin time. Please let me know if you’d like to come along and I’ll share the Google Meet details.

I’m currently seeking questions on the topics of writing and creativity for future installments of the Ask Clare column. You can pose your question or raise your specific curiosity in any way you want - no need to be formal about it. Hit reply to submit your question/topic, or follow the link below to submit your idea anonymously.

How do you set your boundaries as a writer?

I came of age in the 2010s when many young female writers got their start by writing essays about their most traumatic experiences for $50 a pop. At the time, I wished I was one of them. I dreamed about writing a viral essay that would make me feel seen, known and understood for who I really was. These days, I’m deeply relieved that didn’t happen. I’m grateful to whatever combination of shyness and self-protection kept my tender heart away from the madness that is publishing personal writing on the internet.

What follows is an exploration of how I think about my writing boundaries and how they’ve evolved over the years. Clear, strong boundaries are essential to creative work. They’re a gift for both the reader and the writer, particularly when we’re exploring difficult topics. Perhaps most importantly, I have three warnings to share. These are the things I wish I understood a decade ago when I was sitting at my desk trying to transform my most painful memories into clickable stories. Things that might have changed my writing life if I’d understood them sooner.

I think good boundaries are a service to the reader.

They make my work possible. Without them, I wouldn’t be able to write or share any of my work. Unprocessed trauma often feels like shapeless, swallowing horror and I don’t expect a reader to wade into those swampy depths with me, unless they know I’ll lead them out safely. No-one wants to be left alone in that horror, and we owe it to our readers to guide them through those stories.

Like many things in life, I discovered my boundaries only by transgressing them and having to deal with the icky, squirmy feeling of exposure that caused. When I was 22, I published a short piece about my struggle with disordered eating in a national newspaper. I was working in a music magazine at the time, and one of my then-colleagues saw the piece and wanted to discuss it in the office. Needless to say, a room full of gristly male music fans didn’t feel like a safe place for that kind of vulnerability.

I’ve learned what it’s like to unintentionally breach my boundaries, and share more than I’m comfortable with. I’ve also learned what it feels like to hold something back, and feel like the published essay lacked a core of raw authenticity.

Over time, I’ve felt my way toward a set of boundaries that felt right to me. They include: