Writing about trauma: what it’s like to pitch stories about sexual violence

A cautionary tale that threatened my wellbeing

Thank you for reading Beyond Survival, a publication about life after trauma. This is the second installment of my series on writing about trauma. The first installment on the healing power of writing fiction is here. Subscribe to get future editions in your inbox: 

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A few months ago, I read that a convicted pedophile had made some outrageous comments about the people he’d abused. This person clearly enjoyed the attention, so I’m not naming him or describing any of the horrific things he said. But when I saw the news, my journalist antenna pinged. 

Perhaps this man’s cruelty could be an opportunity to pivot the media conversation away from him and toward survivors of sexual violence. Perhaps I could write about the enormous failure of the Irish state and civil society to fund the services survivors need. I wrote a quick pitch and sent it to an editor, who responded within 20 minutes. They couldn’t commit to publication without seeing a draft, but they were interested in seeing it. 

I started writing. I stayed up late that night, dredging up snippets of my own experience of childhood sexual abuse to make the piece more viscerally arresting. I wrote about how the focus should not be on this particular pedophile, but about on the two million survivors in Ireland working to rebuild their lives. I wrote about how sexual violence is considered, by the World Health Organisation, to be a public health epidemic and compared the state’s response to other health issues with how they respond to sexual trauma. I found and read annual reports from different Irish charities, comparing their relative budgets. I wrote about how we need to become a more trauma aware society, and how listening to survivors is the best way to do that. 

A snapshot from the night I stayed up late writing about trauma

I went to bed late and had a nightmare. I knew that was likely. Dredging up my traumatic past right before bed often leads to horrible nightmares, but it felt worth it. This was an opportunity to talk about what survivors needed. I was willing to sacrifice a small piece of my mental comfort to do that. I got up early the next day, shook off the nightmares and glued myself to my desk. I knew the news would move on, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. 

I submitted the piece by noon, less than 24 hours after my initial pitch. I tidied the banana peels and dirty porridge bowl off my desk, and went for a run. I kept my phone on, knowing that the editor might call. I got home, stretched, showered. I checked my email a dozen times. There was no response. I knew not to panic. It’s a busy inbox. There’s always a lot going on. I could be patient. I made a curry. I cleaned out the fridge. I practiced my Italian. I went to see a show with my partner.

You probably know what happened next. The editor never responded. 

I followed up politely several times. I suggested an alternative news hook. I explained how difficult it is to write about sexual abuse and that I understood if they didn’t want to publish it, but would appreciate a response. 

Nothing.

The writing life is full of rejection. It’s part of the job. It’s rare for me to be personally impacted by an editor ghosting or rejecting one of my ideas. But this one hurt. 

It hurt because I put my health at risk to write it. 

It hurt because they asked me to excavate my deepest traumas and never bothered to reply.  

It hurt because it reminded me of all the times I’ve talked about sexual abuse and people haven’t been able to listen. It reminded me of the people who evaporated from my life after I told them what I’d been through, or the people who asked me to keep the conversation ‘light’ because it was too difficult for them to hear. 

It hurt because it felt like one of those times when I take a big, courageous breath and step towards being more honest with someone I think might care and am met with… nothing. Silence. Indifference. 

Everytime I write about trauma, I am pushing against decades of societal messaging that sexual violence is shameful. That I ought to keep quiet about what happened to me, because people will judge and pity and shame me for it. 

This isn’t about this particular editor. I don’t know them, though this wasn’t my first negative experience with them¹. I’ve worked in and around Irish media long enough to know not to expect much compassion or understanding. People are busy. It’s not a good place to go with my pain. But I have been thinking about the system they work within. The editorial policies and practices which make sense if you’re writing about housing policy or the politics of wearing fake tan, but aren’t appropriate for writers who are translating their deepest traumas into newsprint. 

To find my way through this experience, I did what I always do. I wrote. Sorting through my thoughts on the page helped me see that I wasn’t so much hurt that my article was rejected/ignored. I was hurt by the callousness of this editor’s behaviour. They asked me to reveal my deepest, most intimate traumas and then disappeared. I’ve worked with many editors throughout my career and this one just didn’t know enough about sexual trauma to report on it responsibly. 

It was a shitty experience, but it didn’t scar me. It didn’t prevent me from coming back to the page and writing these words, as it probably would have if it had happened a decade ago. While I was pissed at both the editor and the process, I didn’t feel personally wounded. Writing this, I re-read the piece again and was proud of what I wrote. It wasn’t perfect, but it was true. This one particular editor didn’t care, but someone else might. 

I’ve also been reflecting on my willingness to trade a piece of my mental comfort for a byline.

The article I submitted was painful to write. As I wrestled with the draft, I imagined seeing it in print. I wrote a one-line bio and included a link to this community which I hoped would appear below the piece. I dreamed about welcoming a flurry of new readers, especially those who might be in a postition to change things for survivors. It felt worth it to me, to trade a slice of my own wellbeing for the positive change I hoped the piece might generate. Looking back, that seems vaguely ridiculous now. Some might think it’s admirable, but I find it sharply self-destructive. 

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An important postscript 

I wrote this piece months ago, as I was trying to find my way through the pain of this experience. Then, I left it in a digital drawer waiting for the emotional heat to dissipate a little. 

A month after I submitted my draft, the editor responded. They apologised for the delay, shared some feedback on my draft and asked if I could revise it. “You’re in a position to really help readers understand in a way they haven’t before the impact on victims,” the editor wrote and asked me to share more of my personal experience with childhood sexual abuse. 

I thanked them for their feedback and spent two days revising the draft² before submitting it. I never heard from them³ again. 

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Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this essay, you might also appreciate:

The lie that tells the truth

I don’t have many regrets, but this is one.

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💬 In the comments, I’d love to hear about your experiences writing and publishing stories about trauma. Have you any wisdom to share? 

1. Another story for another day!

2. In total, I wrote 12 drafts.

3. I decided not to name this editor but if you are also pitching stories about sexual violence and want to know which editors to be cautious of, please feel free to contact me!