By Carole Geithner
A new acquaintance whose husband had died asked me what felt like a familiar question, “How did you decide to write a grief novel?” But she hadn’t asked why, she asked how. Had there been a decisive moment or a particular spark, or had it come to me gradually, as I was feeling my way through the myriad clouds of my own grief? No friend, therapist, or teacher had suggested that writing would be healing, though I’d certainly heard that it could be helpful, and I had experienced some of that release and shift in perspective through letter writing and sporadic journaling.
My book began as an imagined journal of someone whose sibling had died. I soon realized that it would be easier for me to write what I knew best, the loss of a mother. My mother died from cancer when I was in my mid-twenties. I had experienced what it was like to feel alone and on the periphery of life, without peers who could relate to the fear, confusion, and loneliness. And the deep sense of longing to know more about her—before, during, and even after her death.
From my work at a grief support center, I’d seen how the children who had experienced a major loss were hungry for something they could read to help them navigate some of the awkward challenges of grieving while also navigating all the semi-expected “stuff” of adolescence. I discovered a gap in the literature for young teen readers and for the people who cared about them. The children at the bereavement center shared their personal stories about loss as well as funny stories about Halloween and their favorite kind of cheese. Even the most reserved or reluctant participants seemed to find comfort in hearing from kids their own age who had also lost a mother/father/sibling.
Writing fiction gave me creative license to shape the cast of characters and their interactions. Along with Corinna, the thirteen-year-old protagonist, I aimed to craft a realistic mix of supportive, insensitive, or clueless peers and adults. Writing those scenes helped me work through some of the disappointments, the anger, and fear that I’d experienced in a less conscious way and that I heard from others when I was in a listening role. For example, Corinna got to write the letter to her mother’s oncologist that I hadn’t had the courage to do myself, a complicated mix of questions and sadness and anger. And I wrote about some of the awkward, dreaded questions, silences, and avoidance by friends who didn’t know how to deal with my loss and grief.
I was also able to create lighter moments, like when Corinna and her father–on a trip to Japan to meet the family her mother had lived with on a foreign study program–had to use charades to explain why her mother wasn’t with them. It’s a scene infused with discomfort and humor, a combination that can be so helpful as we navigate life’s toughest moments.
I chose to write in first person, to be able to give voice to the interior thoughts of my protagonist. And, to this day, she sounds a bit like me! I was also able to give her the gift of continuing bonds with her mother, helping her find her own ways of staying connected to her mother’s absent presence. For example, she sews a memory quilt out of her clothes, though that whole process was not without obstacles. When I was new to grief, I wasn’t yet aware of how healing and comforting remembrance rituals can be.
I started with fifty pages of journal entries. And then realized I needed to take a novel-writing class, to help me with all the other parts of writing a much longer, richer, and more complete story. Writing those initial pages had been therapeutic for me, but if I’d stopped there, I would not have been able to touch readers out in the world. If I hadn’t taken the vulnerable, scary-yet-exciting step of sending out my manuscript, Corinna’s story would have remained hidden in my drawer, and I wouldn’t have the gift of receiving the occasional letter from a reader somewhere in the world, whether it’s a teen or an adult who lost their parent decades ago, or from a parent who read the book and was then emboldened to open a difficult conversation with their child. Those letters make the long, arduous process of producing a book feel meaningful and worthwhile. I couldn’t have imagined that heart-warming feeling when I began those first pages.