How to Write About the People in Your Life

“Some of my family members are nervous about me writing our family story. How do I take their perspectives into account?”

(Uwe Krejci / Getty)

This is a subscriber-exclusive edition of I Have Notes, a newsletter in which I share essays, conversations, advice, and notes on writing.

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Dear I Have Notes,

Some of my family members are nervous about me writing our family story. My book, more than some memoirs, will get into their lives and feelings as well, and I’d hate to embarrass them or cause them trouble. At the same time, I believe in this story, and I think they will like it in the end. How do I take their perspectives into account as I move forward, without allowing them to dominate it or unduly influence the book?

— Caught in the Middle Memoirist

Dear Caught in the Middle,

Your letter made me think about the day I called my mother and asked if she would mind if I tried to write a memoir. (“Mind”!! I was so cute.) “It’s fine,” she told me, “as long as you only say nice things about us.”

I don’t think I’ve ever held a reading or taught a writing class without receiving some version of the question you asked. I generally say that of course, I take my loved ones and their privacy into account when I write; our relationships, and their well-being, are more important to me than any story. I might then describe the steps I took, with my first book, to ensure that there were no unpleasant surprises for anyone on publication day. What I don’t always have time to go into is that I only found writing possible once I stopped approaching it with a long list of things to avoid (having to explain something to my mother, having some stranger disagree with or dislike me, upsetting that one person who is constantly disappointed in me anyway). She won’t make anyone upset or uncomfortable, ever is not really a blurb I want on my books.

Every writer’s life and family situation is unique, so every writer will need to negotiate their own boundaries and guidelines when it comes to writing about the people in their life. There are several things you might want to do (and might already be doing!) to try to take your family members’ perspectives into account as you work on your book: You can talk with them so that you understand the facts as they see them. You can make sure that they show up in your story as whole, complex characters—make them feel as real to us as you, the narrator, will be. Sometimes you might choose to signal, in the text, where your memories diverge: e.g., you remember an event this way; your sister remembers it like that. You can let them read the book prior to publication, not so that they can dominate the editing process or veto things they don’t like, but so they can share their honest impressions with you while there’s still time for discussion.

One thing I would advise you not to do is focus on trying to predict or manage your relatives’ reactions to the book if you’re still in the early stages. If you get too caught up in worrying about what they’ll think, or start writing with an eye toward countering their concerns, you might not say the things you need to say. Do your research, be sure that what you’re writing is as accurate as possible, but know that mid-first draft is not the best time to try to address everybody’s fears and feelings about the book—that time will come. (Also, most of their concerns will be largely hypothetical until you actually have a full manuscript for them to read and react to!)

A teacher once told me that writers write to illuminate a greater truth others cannot see. I used to find this idea compelling—wasn’t that my experience when I read my favorite authors? Didn’t I often feel as though they were providing clarity I needed, giving language to something I knew or felt but couldn’t express? But writers are also human, continually working on a craft we’ll never perfect, writing from our distinct points of view even as we try to understand others’ perspectives. We absolutely have an obligation to write what is true when we write memoir, but I do not believe I have special access to some higher, definitive truth that others do not.

I appreciate this point made by Melissa Febos, in her wonderful craft book Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative (a book I would recommend to anyone trying to write a memoir): “When I think of narrative truth—the truth that lies beyond the verifiable facts of an event—I picture a prism, with as many facets as there are people affected.” If I ever get to read your book, I won’t go into it assuming that I will learn everything there is to know about your life and all the people in it. I will remember that I’m being introduced to one view, the view you’ve chosen to show me—no matter how respectful or intricate or beautiful it is, there are entire vistas I’ll never glimpse.

As writers, I think we have a duty to acknowledge that all many readers will ever know about our lives and those we love is what we choose to write about them. We should remember that they are the authority on their own lives; that there are arcs and experiences and moments only they can define. We shouldn’t expose anyone thoughtlessly, attack them needlessly, or portray them dishonestly or one-dimensionally.

We also can’t tell anyone how to feel about our decision to turn them into characters, however accurate or nuanced or just we believe those attempts to be. I’d never dispute your right to tell your story, and I don’t doubt that you want to be fair to the other people in it. But I do understand their anxiety, just as I understood my mother’s. There is no way to turn what we do into a perfectly fair or democratic process: The writer gets the final (highly subjective) word in their story; others might not agree with it; that tension is intrinsic to the entire project.

While I do remember worrying about how some of my family members would feel about my writing, I didn’t worry that they would influence it too much, or that their instincts and opinions would override mine. I was very conscious of the fact that it was my perspective, my interpretation of events, my truths that would be read. This wound up being their understanding of my first book as well—my father told me it wasn’t the story he or my mother would have written about my adoption, and in the end, they thought that was okay; the point was that it was based on my memories and experiences. (They were right to recognize this, but I believe it was also generous of them to do so.)

No matter how large or slight a role someone plays in your story, there can be great satisfaction when you write about them in a way that allows them to live and breathe on the page. After reading an early draft of my memoir All You Can Ever Know, someone who appears in it told me, “You summed me up in a sentence.” Contrary to being upset that such a brief profile couldn’t represent the whole of who they are, they were pleased, even impressed, by what they thought I’d gotten right—they felt seen. It surprised me, how much that meant to me. And then there was a moment, not long after my adoptive parents had died, when I realized that my writing is a place where a version of them still exists: where other people can continue to meet them, hear their voices, learn a little about them. No book or essay could contain the sum of who they were as people or parents, of course, nor should any published work be viewed as the final word on our relationship or what we meant to each other. And yet a very real and important part of our family’s history, as well as an echo of their love for me and mine for them, is preserved in my writing—they live in and through it, in a sense, even though they are gone.

It’s wonderful that you have so much faith in the book you want to write. By all means, consider your loved ones’ perspectives, protect the people and the relationships you need to protect, but do your utmost to honor your own memories and experiences, too. I often think of these lines by Lucille Clifton: “they ask me to remember / but they want me to remember / their memories / and i keep on remembering / mine.”

Remember yours. You are the only one who can. You’re the only one who can share this particular story, and so it’s important that you get it right. I hope that, in time, everyone in your life will understand why you want to tell it.

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Thank you for reading and subscribing to I Have Notes! Do you have a question about friendship, family relationships, writing, or creative work that you’d like me to answer in an upcoming newsletter? You can send it to ihavenotes@theatlantic.com.

Nicole Chung is a contributing writer at The Atlantic and the author of its newsletter I Have Notes. She is the author of A Living Remedy.