08 November 2024
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American author Genevieve Wheeler looks at what she learned about writing through the darkness in her debut novel
In the opening chapter of Lily King’s Writers and Lovers, the main character thinks to herself, ‘I don’t write because I think I have something to say. I write because if I don’t, everything feels even worse.’
It’s a reflection I’ve thought about – and returned to – often over the course of my career. Writing, for me, is not an exercise in professing my thoughts, but in processing them, in learning to understand what I’m feeling on a deeper, more fundamental level. It’s how I make sense of the world, the way I find clarity and show compassion for myself – particularly (and perhaps surprisingly) through fiction.
While I’ve always loved writing, most of my experience beyond school assignments was with narrative nonfiction and first-person essays: Blog posts documenting my semesters studying abroad, PopSugar stories about my months au pairing in France.
I was used to being self-deprecating and self-effacing – careful not to come across as preachy, self-obsessed, or holier than thou to readers. But, as a result, I became more comfortable mocking myself than practising self-compassion. I was consistently the butt of the joke and seldom the main character, even in my own stories.
But, relatedly or not, I was very good (perhaps too good) at showing empathy to fictional characters. (Seriously, though – two of the most severe depressive episodes I’ve had were triggered by books and films like Call Me By Your Name and The Fault in Our Stars. My pain for these two-dimensional beings was both visceral and palpable.)
My therapist – astutely recognising this – made a recommendation: Try writing in third-person, she said. See if that allows you to show ‘Genevieve’ a bit more love.
And so, I did. I wrote a story about my toxic high school boyfriend in third-person – separating the character of ‘Genevieve’ from myself – and quickly realised my therapist was onto something.
It was so much easier to ‘like’ this character, to show her compassion and kindness, when she wasn’t me; when she was just a person on the page. If and as I struggled – with bad first dates, off-and-on situationships, stressful situations at work, manic and depressive episodes – I would jot down diary entries in third-person, not first.
Fast-forward a year or so, when – in early March of 2020 – my literary agent asked if I had any new ideas or projects up my sleeve. Well, I said. I had this kind of crazy year last year – and I was journaling throughout – I guess I could do something with that?
A week or so later, the world shut down, and I began to draft the embryonic beginnings of what would eventually become my debut novel, Adelaide.
Without spoiling anything or giving away the plot, my aforementioned ‘crazy year’ had, unfortunately, involved a mental breakdown and suicide attempt – both of which left me riddled with guilt. I’d cancelled plans and parties and trips with friends, taken time off from my job and placed my workload on colleagues’ plates. I felt I’d become unreliable in the wake of this crisis, and – though I was actively on a path to recovery – I still couldn’t quite forgive myself.
For this reason (for many reasons), writing Adelaide was life-changing. Though the story was – and is – fictional, crafting this character who, in so many ways, was me gave me a different perspective. It forced me to reframe the past several years through a fresh lens, recognising that, actually, I quite liked myself. And I could understand why I – nay, why Adelaide – had made certain choices (and eventually ended up with certain diagnoses).
It’s a practice I’d recommend to writers and non-writers alike: Turn your experiences into stories, write about them in third-person, and unpack characters’ behaviours as though they’re not yours, or your friend’s, or your partner’s, or whoever’s. It will allow you to give yourself, and others, so much more grace, I have no doubt.
Some might prefer to keep these stories tucked in the bottom drawer of their dresser, sure, but I’d also argue there’s power in putting them out into the world, in shoving them into the light. Regardless of whether you’ve grappled with mental illness and suicidal ideation (two very taboo topics about which I think we’d all benefit from talking, and hearing, more), sharing your own, personal struggles will undoubtedly make others – and yourself – feel less alone.
Adelaide by Genevieve Wheeler (Aria, Head of Zeus) was published 7 November 2024
Genevieve Wheeler is an American writer and communications director. Her bylines have appeared in publications including Cosmopolitan, Vice, Vogue Business, Teen Vogue, Elite Daily, and PopSugar, and her work and words have been cited in The New York Times, Vox, the BBC World Service, Cheddar News, Jezebel, and beyond. She holds an M.A. in marketing communications from the University of Westminster in London and a B.S. in advertising from Boston University. She’s based in London. Adelaide is her debut novel and it was a Marie Claire US #ReadWithMC book club pick.
Interested in the relationship between creativity and wellbeing? Read more about the ways creative writing can benefit your mental health
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