“Oh, That’s Depressing” – Writing about Friend Grief

I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve told someone what I write about. “Oh, that’s depressing” is certainly the most frequent negative response. Luckily, I don’t hear it too often.

I was in New York last week at the Writers Digest Conference. Going to this particular conference in January, 2011, was what really kick-started my writing career. I met people there (and shortly after) who are still trusted advisors and friends. I started tweeting on my way to the conference so I wasn’t the only one there who wasn’t on Twitter. This blog began a week later.

Although I haven’t been posting as regularly the past few months, it’s not because I had nothing to say. There were health issues that got in the way, and at times, the self-publication process took precedence. I will be blogging more religiously now, I swear. But I digress.

Writers are supposed to have an “elevator speech”: how do you describe your work in the time it takes for an elevator ride? It shouldn’t surprise you that the reaction varies greatly depending on whether I say “I write about grief” or “I write about friendship”.

If I say I write about grief, there’s always someone who considers that depressing. No, I insist, it’s not depressing. Some of the stories are sad, but they’re not depressing. They’re about the impact our friendships have on us. That usually appeases them, at least for the moment.

Then there are the people who do not have a negative reaction. “I write about people who are grieving the death of a friend.” I used to call it the “You know…” moment. I’d tell them what I write about and there would be a pause, Their eyes never left mine, but I could see a spark of recognition.

Sometimes they nod, sometimes they smile, but the message is always the same: “Yeah, I get that.” More often than not, they’d say “You know…” and tell me a story about a friend of theirs who died.

At the Writers Digest Conference, I spoke with two men: one a former Marine, the other a former Air Force pilot. When I told them I’d written a book about losing friends in the military, they both had the exact, same physical reaction: They straightened up a little more, eyes open a little wider, and nodding slightly they both said, “Yeah…”.

That, as we heard in the conference sessions, is what many writers dream of: making a personal connection to their readers. They don’t want to read something theoretical, something dry. They want to read something that speaks to their hearts: something they can identify with and understand.

It took me a while to accept that I was capable of writing something that appealed to people. The compliments still surprise me. Unlike the publisher’s rep who told me three years ago that “grief is only going to be big for another two years”, the rest of the world knows that there is no expiration date on a universal experience.

There is one thing that’s hard for me. When I’m done with my research, and I’m immersed in putting stories together for a book, there are times when I find myself overwhelmed. It was particularly true with the last book, Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends. Although the previous two books (AIDS and 9/11) were also about people who died under horrible circumstances, this one was different. For several weeks, I was grumpy, to put it mildly. I came out of it, and I believe in the end, the book shows not just the unique grief of those who lose friends in war, but how the survivors are able to process their grief, sometimes in very creative ways.

Depressing? Maybe.

Sad? Definitely.

Inspiring? Very much so.

The reactions of my readers – and future readers – here on the blog, on Facebook, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Twitter, Google+, in much-appreciated reviews on Amazon and Goodreads, in private messages and in person – are what keep me going. So keep them coming! And thanks for being part of Friend Grief.

Share Your Friend Grief Story

Believe it or not, the final two books in the Friend Grief series will be published this fall. I’m looking for additional stories for both books. Do you have a story that will fit one of them?

Workplace grief

The next book is titled Friend Grief in the Workplace: More Than an Empty Cubicle. The stories in it are about people coping with the death of a co-worker who was also a friend. Don’t let the title throw you off, though: I have a pretty broad definition of workplace. There are already stories of friends who worked together at a coffeehouse, a TV studio, a newspaper, a firehouse. Maybe you’re an actor or dancer, a server or bartender, a medical professional or teacher. You see? Any kind of workplace.

Life Changes

The final book in the series is as yet untitled, and is a wrap-up of sorts. It will focus not on the grief itself, but the ways in which people channeled their grief. Some of the people in it have made dramatic life changes, their friend’s death acting as a wake-up call. Some of the people in it decided to carry on their friend’s work or passions. But all have very different lives because of their friends.

Maybe you have a story that fits one of these books. Maybe you know someone who does. Maybe you saw a story on the news that would be a great addition.

If so, please email me (victorianoe@friendgrief.com) with a brief description. Deadline: July 15. I will contact you and we can figure out how best to discuss your story (email, Skype, in person, etc.).

And by the way, Friend Grief won’t end when this series ends.

Thanks in advance and stay tuned!

Friend Grief in New York - Part 2

Book #4 in the New Title Showcase

This post is a bit of a departure from normal posts. It’s a look at what Friend Grief – the blog and the books (the brand, if you will) – was doing at Book Expo America.

I’ve attended BEA before (so I wore comfortable shoes and allocated time for standing in the Starbucks line), but this year was different. I had a very specific purpose for being there and the first ever Author Hub gave me the opportunity to take a big step forward.

The Author Hub was a dedicated area for self-published authors. Over the course of three days, we heard speakers address a variety of business topics (marketing, rights, agents, discoverability). We had room to conduct meetings, meet with other authors, promote our books, read from them and meet eager readers.

My plan for this year was to expand my team. I already have an editor, cover designer and formatter. I went to BEA looking for someone to handle publicity and a website designer. I went there to discuss international and translation rights, as well as determine how best to reach out to libraries.

I’ve exhibited at conferences and conventions before, so when people ask me “how did it go?” my answer is as always: “I don’t know yet.” Yes, some deals are struck on the convention floor. But not all business decisions can or should be made that quickly.

In the short term, though, I accomplished enough to be satisfied:

1. My new book, Friend Grief and the Military: Band of Friends, got exposure in the New Title Showcase and catalog, and I did a brief reading from it in the Author Hub.
2. I signed with IPR License, which will handle international and translation rights, as well as large print, audio, serialization rights. I may have them handle permissions as well, so if anyone wants to quote from my books, I can direct them to IPR.
3. I met with two candidates for publicist and am awaiting proposals from them.
4. I signed with a new program that will curate and promote self-published e-books to libraries.
5. I spoke on a panel at uPublishU about building your author platform.
6. I was offered a speaking engagement.
7. I found several new outlets for discoverability.
8. And I turned down the opportunity to work with companies that were either not a good fit or sounded iffy.

There are more things in very early stages that I don’t want to jinx, and a few opportunities that I’ve filed away for future reference. I have a lot of follow-up to do: thank you’s, requests for more information, inquiries. But you’ll notice one glaring omission: I didn’t mention publishers.

Unlike some self-published authors, I did not go there to catch the eye of a traditional publisher. I’m happy doing things the way I’m doing them (despite my lack of patience with the process at times).

Hugh Howey in the Author Hub

As much as the internet has revolutionized publishing and marketing, there is simply no substitute for face time. At BEA you have the opportunity to meet people you’ve only known online (like Shirley Showalter and Orna Ross). You have the chance to see how people interact. That’s a big thing for me: watching people in action gives me a sense of how we might work together. All the while I kept in mind what an agent once told me, “It’s harder to say no to someone you’ve met.”

My disappointments with BEA are relatively minor (like noise level in the Hub, which couldn’t be helped). I was so busy I didn’t get to all the exhibits or educational sessions I wanted to attend. My deepest disappointment is being so busy I didn’t realize Benedict Cumberbatch was there until it was too late.

The important thing is that the Friend Grief series now has a higher visibility. More people will be able to learn about the books and find them easily because of my work at BEA.

My thanks go out to Porter Anderson and BEA for putting together the inaugural edition of Author Hub. I look forward to an even better experience next year.

Be My Guest on Friend Grief

James Montgomery Flagg

In addition to interviewing people for my books, from time to time, I invite people to share their experience grieving the death of a friend. Now is one of those times.

Oh, you’d like to, but you’re not a professional writer? Don’t let that hold you back!

Would you feel more comfortable simply answering a series of questions? We can do that!

In general, here are the requirements:

1. The experience you describe must be related to the death of a friend. They don’t have to be a close friend, nor does the loss need to be recent. It just has to be about a friend – not a family member or pet.
2. If you choose to write it yourself, I’d like something that’s no more than 600 words.
3. You must be comfortable with your work being edited by me.
4. Include a bio and photo. The photo can be of you, your friend, or the two of you together.
5. Submission is no guarantee that I will use it. But if I don’t, I’ll explain why.
6. Include social media links: your website or blog, Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, etc. Those links will be included at the bottom of your article, but only those you wish to share.
7. Themes can include how you and your friend dealt with their illness, promises you made to them before they died, anger about their death, challenges you faced in grieving them, and what you do now to keep their memory alive.

So, that’s it – pretty simple! There is no deadline, though I’ll be posting the first one next month. If you have any questions, just email me at victorianoe@friendgrief.com.

Know someone who’s lost a friend? Share this information with them.

I can’t wait to read what you have to share about the friends who were so important to you. And I know everyone who reads Friend Grief will be excited to read about them, too.

My Writing Group

markdivincenzowriter.com
 

In the fall of 2006, a flyer from Swedish Covenant Hospital arrived in the mail. Among the events listed was a class in life story writing. It was just over a year after my father died, and coupled with my being the family genealogist, I decided it was time to start writing down the stories I’d heard all my life.

We were a group of about a dozen or so, mostly women, mostly older. The leader was a retired creative writing teacher from Northwestern University.

Each week we read something we’d written, and the group critiqued it. I’d not had any of my writing critiqued since college, so it was a little unsettling. And at the time, the idea of writing as a career was not a consideration.

I’d already told my friend Delle, whose cancer had recently returned, that I wanted to write a book about people grieving their friends. She thought it was a great idea, but at that point, I put it aside for more pressing issues. She died right after the class ended.

A core group of us decided we wanted to keep meeting. Jo (the instructor), Helene, Birgitta, Alice, Penny and I began a schedule that lasted until last summer: twice a year (during good weather) we’d meet at Penny’s apartment six times over the course of a couple months. Penny was on dialysis three times a week, so we worked around that.

The stories – initially dismissed by the writers as “not important” were fascinating: Birgitta moving to America with her mother, and embarking on a career in the Salvation Army; Alice’s childhood near my old neighborhood in St. Louis, and her life in Chicago; Helen’s participation in a choral group many years ago, and her devotion to animals. Penny’s writing grew the most, as she began writing stories for her family: about her move from the Pacific Northwest to Chicago with her jazz musician husband, and life in a big Greek family.

Over the years, Birgitta moved away and others joined for brief periods of time. But the rest of us stayed together. I missed a few sessions after my concussion, and other sessions were rearranged because of volunteer or travel commitments by various members. Health issues interrupted us, too, not surprising, since they are all at least 20 years older than me.

I’d heard from Alice that Penny’s health was deteriorating. When she called me a couple weeks ago, I knew there was something that couldn’t wait. I sent her a printout of my first book, and the final draft of the second one. And I told her how much her friendship meant to me.

In the first book’s acknowledgements I mention the writing group by name. They, more than any class or conference, influenced and improved my writing. They were supportive, critical, encouraging, when I moved from writing stories about my Dad to what would become the first book in my series. After Delle’s inspiration, I owe them the most.

Last Friday – Good Friday – Alice called to say that Penny died that morning. I was grateful that I hadn’t procrastinated for once. And pleased to hear that Penny was touched to receive the books.

I suspect that this is the end of my writing group. Jo’s health has been shaky. We’d have to find another location, one that (unlike my house) doesn’t require climbing stairs. It could be done, but right now seems unlikely.

Will I seek out another group? I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. I’ll still keep in touch with Jo, Alice and Helene, but it won’t be the same without Penny. In the meantime I’ll have to content myself with the memories of dozens of mornings spent with four remarkable women. They’ve taught me a lot, not just about writing, and they’ll always be in my heart.

Writing About Depressing Stuff

I’ve written before about how writing about grief can affect you, but I think it’s worth revisiting, in a little broader sense.

There are people who cringe when I tell them what most of my writing is about. I understand their feeling that grief is “depressing”. But there are many whose work could be classified that way:

            Hospice volunteers

            AIDS outreach workers

            Oncologists

            First responders

I had a friend whose job was to fire people in her company (I hate “lay off” – let’s call it what it is). I thought she had an incredibly depressing job, but she didn’t think so. She was so considerate about how she handled each person that they often wound up sympathizing with her.

I’ve also met writers whose memoirs deal with horrific tales of neglect, addiction, abuse and suicide. Yet not one of them seemed unhappy.

What do these people have in common? I think aside from their professions, or book topics, it’s attitude.

They’ve found a way to define themselves as helpers. They use their experience to inform and empower others. They don’t feel sorry for themselves or complain about how hard they have it. They focus on serving people, often on the worst day of their lives.

So, when you watch a tragedy unfold on TV, think of them: the reporters struggling for words, the first responders taking a break and realizing what they just witnessed, the Red Cross volunteers comforting victims.

Their job is a whole lot more depressing than mine, and probably yours, too. But you won’t hear them complain.

Because they’re the ones asking “How can I help you?”

Christopher Hitchens’ Final Gift

Christopher Hitchens

My friend, Delle, referred to her cancer as ‘the old squatter.’

Christopher Hitchens referred to his as a ‘blind, emotionless alien’. Though his cancer may have been emotionless, Hitchens is anything but in his remarkable final book, Mortality, being released on September 4. Those familiar with his work may be surprised by how vulnerable he is, as he shares his diagnosis of esophageal cancer.

Anyone who has had cancer, or known someone who had cancer, will instantly relate to this book. He’s not shy about documenting the horrors endured by the body in pursuit of a cure, brutally honest about the treatment, the side effects and the emotional toll. You can’t help but cringe as he recounts the agony of a PIC line insertion that should’ve taken ten minutes, but required twelve attempts over two hours.

At the same time, sometimes even on the same page, he’ll make you laugh out loud: “You can die from sheer advice.” He has practical suggestions for an etiquette handbook for residents of both Tumortown and Wellville (hint: stop talking about other people’s cancers).

He freely admits to denial, though it happens less often as time goes on. No fan of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief, Hitchens does describe a long attachment to “bargaining”.

He resists the idea of going to battle, where those diagnosed with cancer are referred to as “warriors”. What if you lose the battle, he asks. Then you’ve failed yourself and those who cheered you on.

In the middle of one of his hospitalizations, he reflects on something we all say off-handedly, but which now means something very different:

“One thing grave illness does is to make you examine familiar principles and seemingly reliable sayings. And there’s one that I find I am not saying with quite the same conviction as I once used to. In particular, I have slightly stopped issuing the announcement that ‘whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger’.”

I remember when he died that I was grateful to have not heard that this famous atheist had made a deathbed conversion. Now I’m doubly glad he kept to his convictions, given the behavior of self-proclaimed religious people upon hearing the news of his cancer diagnosis. The hatred directed towards him was stunning: the insistence that now he was being punished for not believing in God, he was getting ‘what he deserved’. That leads to a discussion about who ‘deserves’ cancer, which will certainly give you pause.

Although Hitchens is genuinely appreciative of the medical personnel who treat him – technicians, doctors, nurses, researchers – late in the book he admits to a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. The reaction is related to an article he’d written for Vanity Fair about waterboarding, in which he describes undergoing the torture himself. Now, he perversely sees how close his medical treatment is to torture.

“Are you feeling any discomfort or distress?” The doctors ask the same questions as the military men who waterboarded him. In his mind, only the intent and inflection separate deliberate torture from sanctioned medical treatment. Knowing they’re trying to help and not hurt you makes all the difference in the world, even when it feels like torture.

Once he gets past the denial, it’s not all sarcasm. Sometimes it’s silly: “Will I outlive my AMEX? My driver’s license?” Sometimes it’s the frightening, lonely realization that everyone with cancer has to accept: “I’m not fighting or battling cancer – it’s fighting me.”

Early in the book, Hitchens admits “My chief consolation in this year of living dyingly has been the presence of my friends.”

I love that that he was grateful for his friends, and the normalcy they could give him. I also love the phrase “year of living dyingly”.

It’s a short read but not an easy one, just over 100 pages, with a forward by Graydon Carter and an afterward by Hitchens’ wife Carol Blue. The final chapter is a collection of random thoughts at the end of his life that will make you sad knowing they will never be fully explained.

It doesn’t matter if you were a fan of Christopher Hitchens while he was alive. But if you want to look into the heart and mind of a man facing a grim diagnosis with uncommon honesty, read this book. It’s that good.

“For me, to remember friendship is to recall those conversations that it seemed a sin to break off: the ones that made the sacrifice of the following day a trivial one."

To order Mortality, click HERE

Friend Grief at the Bloggers Ball – Take 5

Welcome She Writers to the Friend Grief stop on the latest Bloggers Ball!

Some of you have been here before; some of you are visiting for the first time. I encourage you to browse the archives here, as well as this post.

Writing is hard.

Writing about difficult subjects is harder.

I wasn’t sure I was up for it.

But those who follow this blog, the She Writers and the posse I’ve gathered have encouraged me and sustained me when I felt I was in over my head.

Once a month I write about 9/11, and also about the AIDS epidemic. I share stories about people who are struggling as they grieve their friends, and about those who have made major life changes because of that experience. I introduce you to organizations and films and people addressing the phenomenon of “friend grief”.

I’m not a professional bereavement counselor. I’m just sharing what I know.

This blog has been a testing ground, of sorts, for my book. I was pretty sure I had a good idea. I just didn’t know if it would really resonate; because if it didn’t, maybe the book wouldn’t either.

But now I know I’m on the right track (see my posts on what I’ve learned writing about “friend grief”), and She Writers have helped.

So, thanks to you all!

What Else I Learned Writing a Book about Friend Grief

When I posted last week about what I’ve learned in this now almost two-year book project, I had the feeling I was forgetting something. It took a day, but it finally popped into my head:

I forgot to tell what I’ve learned about writing.

Last week I concentrated on the grief aspect, the subject matter, the people I interviewed (not that there’s anything wrong with that). But this is my first book, and I’m learning by doing. Some things have come easily; some not so easily.

I knew why I was writing the book. In its simplest form, I was keeping a promise to my friend, Delle. What was harder was coming to terms with who was writing the book and what it could accomplish.

It may seem odd to wonder who was writing the book. I’m writing it alone, no co-authors, and no ghost writers (except for Delle). But part of the process of pitching your book is explaining why you are the best person to write your book. At times, my insecurity about my answer has shown through.

What I finally decided was that what caused me to feel insecure was actually my greatest strength: I’m not a professional. My book is not a clinical textbook, meant for the classroom or therapeutic setting. It’s a book for non-professionals like me: a way for them to have their grief respected, to no longer feel alone or dismissed, and a place to learn about other people’s incredible friends.

I had in mind originally that this would be a quiet little book that would appeal to a few people. I learned that it’s not little or quiet; and that if it does the things I just mentioned, it could help people.

Again, I’m not a bereavement professional. But I’ve finally come to terms with the possibility that you don’t have to be a psychologist to help those who grieve.

So, apparently you can teach an old dog new tricks, because I’ve learned a lot in this process. With any luck – actually, with a lot of luck – the book will be “done” in the next 6 weeks or so.

By then I’m sure I will have learned much more.

Things I’ve Learned Writing a Book about Friend Grief

It’s been five years since I promised my friend, Delle, I’d write a book about dealing with the death of a friend; almost two years since its form finally became clear to me. I’d already spent over two years mulling it over, writing in fits and starts (mostly fits) before hitting the wall. I’d given up, but one day, it was just there like magic; or karma.

I began by researching the whole phenomenon of “disenfranchised grief”: grief that is not acknowledged or respected. Grieving the death of a friend certainly fit the definition. I already knew from personal experience that while everyone at some point will experience the death of a friend, most people are not very sympathetic of others’ grief. The title of my book reflects the most common reaction: “It’s not like they’re family”.

As someone once said, there are things I know for sure, and things I just guess at. The most basic thing I knew for sure when I started out was that everyone has a story. With few exceptions, I get the same reaction from people when I tell them about my book. They might be enthusiastic, or neutral, or sometimes dismissive. But then there’s a pause in the conversation, and they say, “You know…” That’s when they tell me a story about a friend who died. When I realized how universal that reaction was, I knew I was on to something.

I also knew I had to include 9/11 in the book; it’s too big, too unique to ignore. I’ve made several trips to New York, toured every related museum or exhibit, talked to people who were there, and others like me who were affected from a distance. I’ll go back in September for the 10^th anniversary observances, hopefully to hear my classmate’s name pronounced correctly this year during the naming ceremony. The loss of life on 9/11, and the friends left behind, could easily be its own book, but that’s a discussion for another time.

Only one thing has surprised me (other than how long it’s taken to actually finish writing the book), and that’s the willingness of men to tell their stories. I go into an interview with roughly 30 questions, all open-ended, to get the person talking about their friend. One reason I have those questions is because I assumed getting men to talk would be akin to pulling teeth without an anesthetic. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I’ve asked others why these men have been so willing to bear their souls to me, to share their memories and their pain and their love for their friends. I don’t think it has anything to do with me; I think it’s more basic: someone asked. And I believe I will write another book, just about men grieving their friends.

But first I need to finish this one. I’ve set an arbitrary deadline of Labor Day weekend, to finish all but the 9/11 chapter. I chose the date at random, but in reality, it has great significance. Five years ago Labor Day, I was visiting my friend, Delle, in the hospital. I walked into her room as her doctor walked out, having told her the cancer had returned for what would be the final time. Since I promised Delle I’d write the book to begin with, it seems somehow perversely appropriate.

I’ve learned other things along the way: that there is a market for my book, that people are incredibly generous with their time and their memories, that I have a posse that’s pushing/cheering me on.

“You gotta have friends,” the song goes, and it’s true. What is reinforced for me every day is that even when those friends have left us, they’re always in our hearts.