Writing Your Lost Loved Ones: Thoughts on Grief, Love, and Character

Last week, a stranger reviewed of one of my young adult novels and said my character, 15-year-old Huck, was so vivid that he felt like family to her. Well, any writer loves to hear a comment like that. I read the review, smiled, and experienced a moment of extreme gratitude and pride. Then for a rather typical but unfortunate minute or so, I felt the requisite dreaded imposter syndrome reaction we’ve all experienced too often: “It wasn’t that well done. It was just okay. It could have been better. How long until this person figures out I’m not a real writer?”

But then a strange thing happened. For the next several minutes, longer minutes, I thought:

“Huck. She meant Huck. Huck, who honors all the best parts of my brother, Keith. Have I done either of them justice? And does this mean that eight years after Keith died, someone really is still just meeting him for the first time?”

It seems that all writers I’ve spoken with draw from the people they know, even if their characters are only lightly sprinkled with the traits and foibles of real-life people who once shared their space on this Earth with us. I can’t imagine it would be possible to write regularly and not be influenced by the people we’ve connected with. But lately I’ve been pondering what it means to keep someone alive through our words. Is this what the cliche “breathing life” into a character means? Perhaps we’re head-on trying to rewrite a loved one through memoir. Or perhaps we’re simply allowing their moments and quirks to bubble out across a variety of characters, novels, and stories. Either way, I believe we long, as writers, to engender life.

I’m curious to know how other authors tackle this. Do you set out to write characters that commemorate a lost loved one? Do you shy away from this? When the memories spill onto the page, how do you cope with the emotions that well up? Do you find it painful to reanimate your loved ones this way? What about their flaws? Their abuses? Do you recover by writing those aspects into your characters’ arcs and motivations? And when someone says, “I feel like I know your characters,” do you wonder if they know your heart? And more importantly, do you wonder if you’ve done your loved one justice by allowing them — or perhaps forcing them — to place their ghost feet into your characters’ footsteps?

Well. That’s a lot for anyone to ask in one lifetime. I defer to the experts.

Anne Lamott would undoubtedly say something poignant and witty on the matter, something like “Every character’s beating heart has been transplanted from someone generous enough to donate theirs to the cause.” (I’m making this up; bear with me, and please imagine something a few shades more poignant). And you’ll be both touched and jealous but unable to resent Lamott her genius because she’s so already so darn generous with her talent and so darn sure of yours, too.

Stephen King would say something equally poignant and witty, but with an easy casualness, like he’s sitting next to you at a ballgame shooting the breeze. He’ll offer a remark about plotting or unplotting and how characters are responsible for untangling themselves, something like “If you write a doorway, pretty soon, someone you know is going to walk through it into your story.” (Yes, I’m still making this up, as far as I can tell, but it’s fun to channel. You should try this!) It will take you a moment to realize how wise King’s statement is because the words are so simple and besides, remember that cat, Church in Pet Sematary? He didn’t come back the same, did he? Can anyone?

How about Keri Hulme? She would say something brilliant about time and love and how they’re both the same thing. (Which you’ve always suspected, haven’t you?) She’ll speak in spirals of prose and poetry, because there are no borders between thoughts and words, and it will take a year, and it will take a day, and it will take a lifetime for you to process her response: “Truth. A person is real as long as they speak the truth. A truth is true for as long as we live it.”

You will have absolutely no response to that, but the words will shine like the moon and sun sharing the sky.

And Thich Nhat Hanh? I write this on the same day we lost him. Dare I write for him? Yes. A bit. He would say something about how your loved one is “not lost. We’re never lost. We never die. We’re always right here, and only right here, now.” And you will smile. Because he’s right. Because it’s true for as long as you let it be true. You did write your story well enough after all, and your love will always be in the present tense.

Huckleberry Ted Williams O’Malley, a smart, kind, inventive boy who occupies a nebulous space on the spectrum, is just one representation of my brother, Keith, whom I lost to addiction eight years ago, and who never leaves my side. They both love statistics, history, the Red Sox, trees, silence, curious dog snouts, and perfectly toasted grilled-cheese sandwiches. But Huck is still young. He’s healthy and whole and still sober. Watching him grow up heals me.

Thank you for indulging my ponderings on loss, tribute, and character. I have to imagine that each of you reading this is grieving someone, and that each of you has experienced the joy and sorrow of greeting your loved one again on the page, both as you write, and when others meet your character. After all, every character is a golem; every character is a little god who’s defying mortality. And all grief is a curse and a blessing. (“Curse, bless, me now,” as Dylan Thomas would say.)

For those of you struggling with grief, I wish you solace and inspiration. I hope your writing journey continues to heal and surprise you.

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