By Sarah White

This is the second post in a short series that began with a review of the book Family Trouble: Memoirists on the Hazards and Rewards of Revealing Family. In this post, I share an experience with “the hazards and rewards” of writing not about blood relatives, but the people who make up our chosen family–our dearest friends.

In 2010, I was establishing my personal history practice. I taught reminiscence writing classes, coached memoirists 1:1, and ghost-wrote for clients. I had a new product line in mind: helping my clients self-publish their life stories using the new print-on-demand (POD) services.

These were coming online in the 2000s following the digital printing revolution of the 1980s-90s. I’d been through all that as a graphic designer before my career pivot—I believed I had all the skills necessary to take a book from idea through manuscript to layout to print. (Spoiler alert: Good judgment should be among those skills.)

With these new services, you could print one book, or ten, or hundreds. The books you could order through POD were identical to the books you buy in stores. But I wanted to test this self-publishing workflow before offering it to my clients. What did I have lying around that I could publish?

In 2008 I’d developed and taught a workshop called “Write Your Travel Memoirs,” after writing my own about a spring trip to Italy’s Cinque Terre. The drama of that story came from the “hazards and rewards” that ensued when my husband and I engaged dear old friends to dog-sit for our elderly fox terrier while we were gone. (I serialized that memoir on this blog a year ago—you can read it in 10 parts, starting here.)

I’d taught the class online and recorded it—making a “how-to” manuscript from that material was easy-peasy. Plus I had the memoir itself, Finding Our Place in Cinque Terre, which I used as an example when I taught the class. Putting the two together, I had a 10,000-word manuscript. I prepared it for POD printing and ordered several printed proof copies.

I sent one to the dog-sitters. Now remember, every book created with print-on-demand looks exactly like a book you’d buy in a store. It’s made on the same equipment with the same processes, start to finish. 

I had mentioned to our beloved dog-sitters that I was planning to publish the story, but I hadn’t shown them the manuscript before that book arrived in their mailbox. Identical to a published book. Which is what they thought it was. Available for all the world to read. They freaked out. 

Here’s why.

In the opening chapter, I set up the major complication that would drive the story: We had been offered this trip as a gift for our 25^th wedding anniversary. But could we go?

Jim and I are round-the-clock caretakers now. Over the last year Fred has weakened and developed a limp. His needs are few … We’re aware we don’t have many years left together…. We tried kenneling Fred just once. When we went to retrieve him, the chorus of howls hit us too hard, and we never went back.

Now we want to spend ten days in Italy. We need a new solution.

House sitters. My old college friend Dave and his partner Elaine both work from home at a country crossroads an hour south of Madison. Might they enjoy a stay in our little cottage near the lake, with free high-speed Internet, premium cable, and dozens of restaurants nearby? With a cute little fox terrier as major domo?

Jon Franklin, author of Writing for Story, teaches that story structure demands a sequence of actions that begins with a complicating situation. That complication raises a problem that will hang there until it’s resolved, introducing tension and suspense.

In my Cinque Terre memoir, I ended each chapter of our hiking adventure with my desire to know how our dog was doing. I describe daily visits to Internet cafes where I find no messages from the dog-sitters, or find messages that are too brief, too vague. “Did they not understand,” I wrote, “that when I suggested they keep us posted, I was really begging for entertaining notes like a sentimental (and guilt-ridden) pet-owner?” 

In the concluding chapter, I huffily recounted coming home to find our dog weak and our dining room table covered with prescription dog food and pill bottles. I focused solely on our jet-lagged annoyance.

What actually happened was that Fred had had a medical catastrophe. He became so stressed out by his abandonment that he required hospitalization, putting Dave and Elaine through an extremely traumatic experience. Which they keep to themselves, knowing we would insist on cutting our holiday short if we knew. This was valiant of them, and I failed to appreciate that.

Everything I’d written in the memoir missed the mark on acknowledging the terrible situation I’d put them in. After Dave and Elaine received the “published” book, we had some heavy conversations. I had a dark night of the soul. They agreed I could publish the story, but asked that I not use their real names. Of course, I agreed. And I added an Epilogue in which I wrote, “Slowly the realization worked its way through to me: I was the villain in this piece. Through my selfishness, I had nearly killed our dog and poisoned a friendship.” You can read the rest of my apology here.

The irony is that in the “how-to” part of the book, I included a section titled “Writing about living people.” In it, I wrote, “When you decide to put your work before an audience, consider the consequences.” I had failed to take my own advice. 

Now I advise my clients to game out the “what ifs.” Show what you’ve written to the people you’ve written about, early on, and be sure they see it in manuscript form. Even better, read it aloud to them, face to face if you’re able to, inviting collaboration. 

(And if offered a free dream vacation while you have an elderly pet, consider saying “thanks, but let’s wait on that until…”)

Dave and Elaine? Our friendship continues. They even became dog owners themselves, despite their trial by fire.