Writing as an Act of Radical Self-Love
Lauren McKinnon

During my undergraduate and graduate workshops, my writing revealed the unruly and rotten–fights on a beach strewing the remains of broken jellyfish, glass bottle babies haunting women.

At the time, I wrote what poured out and published near nothing because of the grotesque resonance of my own voice. I struggled to submit the hundreds of essays, poems, and short stories because what I wrote revealed real people who’d touched my life in some way. More than that, it revealed me. 

For almost ten years, writing had evolved into a space of naming, processing, and empowering. Publishing felt too naked. I continued to write and hide, write and hide. Writing was a therapeutic passion, a pipedream I chipped away at.

In an email chain where my mentor encouraged me to submit a poem I’d written to a recommended journal, I admitted I hated submitting anything for publication because of my fear for how the people I mentioned in my writing might react. My mentor advised: “Writing is about love. Your writing should bring more love into this world.”

For some, this might mean the poem or essay you wrote was for you. It is enough to thank your body for naming what needed to be named on the page and let it be. I don’t believe writing always needs to be seen by others to serve its purpose. Ask yourself, what was the purpose of this essay or poem? Was it to learn and become a better writer? Is it for my eyes only to process? Will releasing it into the world cause others harm?

For most poets and nonfiction writers who vein creativity to the unasked questions of our bodies (why does it still ache?) This response may cause tossing and turning. There’s the ethical dilemma of writing about people you know versus trying to create space to be recognized as a writer in the world. For me, writing to bring love into the world felt insurmountable when so much of my writing revealed violence and trauma.

It takes a radical act of self-love to transform our ugliest, darkest moments into something learning, valuable, and sparkling. In this sense, creative nonfiction and autobiographical poetry can live full of love, regardless of the subject. It’s magic when we pour the shallow waters of our body into a form to admire and learn from.

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