Why I Published My Memoir as a Novel

Muscle Building

The Elegant Out wasn’t written to become a tangible book with a gorgeous cover sitting on shelves at Barnes and Noble. (Though, it is now! Thank you SheWrites.) It was, however, written to build the ‘muscle of completion’. It was written because I couldn’t face yet another decade, or one more year for that matter, without finishing writing a book. Because after two decades of wanting and three half-baked manuscripts molding on a hard-drive, I wasn’t entirely sure I could do it. I issued myself an ultimatum: complete a manuscript or sink further into despair.

A little memoir would be the easiest way in, I figured. After all, I didn’t have to invent characters; I already knew them. I didn’t have to invent events; they’d already happened. All I had to do was write down words to describe the people and goings-on, the tirades and the breakdowns, the revelations and the triumphs, the inciting incident and the all-is-lost moments. All I had to do was report with color and flare. Easy peasy.

In the process, I could build the muscle of story telling, learn how to plot a narrative arc. I could even get creative, be playful. Frankly, there are times when reality just doesn’t add the oomph when a writer needs to turn a scene; creative interpretations to convey the true essence suit me just fine.

Surely, I was at least good enough to handle this assignment: a simple memoir, and a simple story. From there, maybe I could grow into being a novelist. 

The Pain of Writing

Writing a memoir is fucking hard. I most definitely didn’t want to add any of the bits about the hands around my neck. No way did I want to turn toward, and not only write about the past, but also embrace it, love it, and evolve it with each word I wrote. In the writing of The Elegant Out, I had to dig deeper into myself and become more vulnerable, knowing I was writing about me. A private person, I had to reveal myself (yikes!) and the underbelly of layers.

Plus, I had to craft a delightful narrative, one that at least I would want to read. I so badly wanted to write a pearl necklace of words like—like Mark Zusak strings together—that would grab the reader and fill them with possibility or laughter or a cutting truth that they too have experienced. I wanted to write a book that contained beauty like that.

Oh, and I also had to…write. Every. Day. Just like I would with a novel. I had to actually sit down at the typewriter and type, no matter whether I felt like it or not. I had to work at it, practice, refine, revise and start again, give up, return, face the monsters, beat the monsters.

When the book was finally done, and muscles bulked, I felt proud. The story was gorgeous to me: I loved the protagonist’s sassiness and heart. I loved every scene with Granny, as she’s modeled after my own. I loved the Monkey Muse who curses and says the thing we would never say out loud. I cried when I read the ending. Strands of words that delighted me dotted the pages. And, I began to think, “Huh, maybe I am good enough.” I even dared to think, “Hell, I did the work; I’ve earned my right to publish a novel.”

From Me to We

I started with a story I wanted to work through, a story of mine that I was desperate to tell. A story that I was desperate to transform for myself. Once I’d dove into and unearthed the retched broken pieces, the hope, the joy, and reframed them into a story I could powerfully carry into the future, giving me personal strength on my own journey, I felt complete. The desire then switched, and the question became—how could I share this in a way that others can find beauty for themselves? As such, Elizabeth became a character in a story; she seemed like someone else relaying a story for someone else: another struggling writer, an artist looking for validation, a lost creative soul, another woman who’d lost her voice.

Thus, The Elegant Out went from being my story to being our story. And in that vein, it didn’t need to stay a memoir. As fiction, the story could serve a universal purpose, rather than a recount of one woman’s life. It could become fiction, a tale that any woman, or man for that matter, could relate to. A tale where the reader could become the protagonist, see herself inside the story, know she’d faced similar challenges, and could take away tricks and weaponry to karate-chop through her own inner creative wars. With the metamorphosis of myself, alongside the story’s transformation—and the publisher’s reassurance no one was gonna sue me—it became clear The Elegant Out was no longer a memoir but a novel.

Ultimately, what it takes to write fiction is no different than what it takes to write memoir. Both journeys are a personal transformation filled with challenges, setbacks, peaks, and delight. Both require skill and stamina. Both require heart.

Both are daunting. And, both are attainable.  Of course, we authors don’t negate factual essence or the practicalities working within the publishing genres, structuring the brand, and maneuvering within the legal system, but ultimately I vote we choose from the heart. And either way we choose, I vote we do the hard work and share our stories.

—
Elizabeth Bartasius is the award-winning author of the novel, The Elegant Out, praised by Kirkus Reviews as  “…a riveting tale of maturing womanhood and an insightful peek into the creative process.” A ‘word colorist’ with a distinct lyrical style and unflinching strokes, Elizabeth’s creative narratives share rich insights on how she overcomes self-doubt and offers readers the audacity to take dazzling leaps. To read her novel or to connect with her visit www.elizabethbartasius.com where you’ll find workbooks, worksheets and prompts to reclaim your voice. Every little bit of reflection, inspiration and validation helps.

THE ELEGANT OUT

“. . . a riveting tale of maturing womanhood and an insightful peek into the creative process.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Reminiscent of Anne Lamott’s works, The Elegant Out grapples with the glorious, messy intersection of real life and true art.”
—Patricia Minger, author of Magic Flute

“Really lovely . . . fun . . . impressionistic . . . poetic . . . evocative.”
—Kate Maloney, PhD, CEO and executive producer of WeRiseUP The Movie

After escaping an abusive relationship, Elizabeth finds herself struggling with immense feelings of inadequacy. Stuck in a small-town, eight to five job, she dreams of characters and plot lines—when she’s not thinking about babies. She wants another. Gabe, her love, does not. When her writing coach praises her talent and encourages her to write, Elizabeth dives in, resolved to pursue her dream of publishing once again and put her ideas about pregnancy on the back burner. But then everyone around her, from her cousin to the couple-that-never-would, starts announcing their own pregnancies, and her baby obsession comes rushing back—accompanied by a deep depression.

Frustrated with Gabe’s refusal to give her another child—as well as his questioning of her motives—Elizabeth finds herself considering a separation. Writing, meanwhile, becomes a tool for beating herself up over her inability to find her voice. Ultimately, she must face an abusive past to answer a complex question: Is having babies the answer, or simply a distraction from her immense feelings of inadequacy and fear—an elegant out? If she fails to uncover her truth, Elizabeth fears she might remain strangled, her voice squelched forever.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing