Four Guiding Principles for Writing that Feels True and Brave
By Reema Zaman
I learned to write to survive. I was 26, in an abusive relationship, living in a construction site, babysitting, and acting to make cash. Most days, I was too tired, heartbroken, and hungry to imagine a path forward. But I knew it would begin by regaining my voice.
My muscle for writing was developed during that time. Very quickly, writing became my most reliable source of joy. Although those years were difficult, I wouldn’t change a thing. Learning to write during snippets of time, on the subway to work or while the kids I babysat napped, sharpened my discipline. I didn’t have the luxury to procrastinate. Writer’s block was a privilege I couldn’t afford. If I had 20 minutes to write, I used every second.
My life was saturated with uncertainty. I would remember Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and scoff: Damn it, I’d write regardless of whether I had a sturdy roof over my head or solid ground to stand on. Whenever fears from my relationship or financial desperation crept in, I leaned on a few guiding principles collected from other fields and disciplines that make perfect sense for a writer’s journey. Now at 39, after divorce, a published memoir, love that feels like I’ve come home, and a new novel on the way, whether it’s memoir or fiction, these principles stoke the baby flame of my voice until it roars.
Intention
The voice we choose to tell our story will define the trajectory of our narrative and therefore our life. If the genre you’re tackling is memoir, there is such a wealth of material that it’s hard to identify what to share, what to keep private. Like all hopeful-memoirists, I had multiple possible directions and themes. Would the memoir be focused on healing from anorexia? Would it focus on my life as a woman of color and an immigrant? Would I focus on my relationships?
It all begins with intention. Ask yourself, “What is my intention for writing this book? What is the legacy I want to be remembered for? How do I want my reader to feel while reading?” I cast my imagination forward, envisioned the lasting resonance I wanted the book to have, and the career I wanted to kickstart. “Love,” “resilience,” “hope,” “evergreen,” and “limitless” are words that came to mind. Immediately, I began hearing the book’s voice. I wanted the lasting resonance to be love; for the reader to feel loved, for the book to be in service of another person’s healing, hope, and resilience from trauma. I’d write the book in a voice that felt brave, empowering, and uplifting, rather than self-victimizing, downtrodden, and rageful. I wanted the book to become my evergreen ticket to speak and write on a limitless range of topics for all genders, ages, and races. With that in mind, I set forth.
The Four Noble Truths
In Buddhism, we try to follow the Four Noble Truths before putting any word into the world. For me, this applies to speaking and writing. The four noble truths are questions that act as a kind of Litmus Test to measure the value of putting a certain set of words into the world, and thus into motion. The moment any group of words leaves my mouth or hand, in-person or through publication, they spark a ripple effect of impact, action, and response. For writers writing memoirs, this principle helps guide you through the maze of questions as you consider what to voice and what to leave unspoken. Ask yourself:
Is it true?
Is it useful?
Is it kind?
Does it have meaning, and will it add meaning?
When searching your personal life for material to fashion into essays or a full-length memoir, you will find tons of content that qualify as being true. But would sharing it be useful, kind, and meaningful? Return to the intention driving your work. Voice the parts of your story that will add the resonance and serve the legacy for which you wish to be remembered. Voice them in a way that will be of service to your reader and your integrity. When you think of writing in this way, you can see these principles apply to both memoir and fiction. We are remembered for the stories we live and share, whatever their genre or medium, on and off the page.
When in Doubt, Lean into Intimacy
Artists are my favorite people. We are creative, imaginative, adventurous, self-aware, passionate, and curious. We can also be over-analytic, obsessive, hyper-meticulous, and paralyzed by perfection, criticism, and self-awareness. Our fears and shadow-side often lead to procrastination, self-doubt, and writer’s block. A principle that helps relax and embolden my voice is lean into intimacy. I learned this from an acting teacher in my twenties. When faced with a student who was trying too hard to hit the emotion in a script, she would say, “When in doubt, err on the side of intimacy.”
When you’re acting on camera, you’re playing within a tight frame. If the scene is a close-up, it's an extremely tight frame. Few things are more compelling than an actor who has mastered the art of expressing a myriad of emotions in the most subtle way, channeling the entire history of a relationship through a mere glance. It requires immense talent to express so much with such control of facial expressions and vocal tonality.
When a person tempers their voice and speaks softly, we naturally lean in. When faced with the daunting task of completing an entire manuscript, one that will please not only you but the world at large, it can be tempting to mimic your favorite authors, or dazzle your reader with overwrought sentences in the hopes they sound impressive. But sometimes, the truest sentences are the simplest. Be brave enough to be intimate. Be bold enough to be your authentic self. More often than not, less is more and earnest is impressive. Being true, pure, and intimate is radical and mesmerizing in a world saturated with loud, showy voices competing for attention.
Service Overrides Fear
Throughout the writing process, you’ll be visited by fear. Fear is a stealthy companion on any journey that requires immense self-discipline to continue. If it’s your first book, imposter syndrome may play a role, too. When I was writing I Am Yours, I didn’t identify as a writer. I was a 30-year-old recent divorcee, living with my parents, working at KinderCare and Whole Foods. “Who am I to write a book? Do I have anything worthwhile to share? Why would anyone want to read anything I write?”
In those moments of fear, I would return to the first principle—intention. I’d focus on an imaginary reader who would someday read my memoir, to find something to give them hope, inspiration, or encouragement. I’d do this so often I realized that is who I’m writing to—an imaginary best friend, a kindred soul, someone whose heart aligns with mine. By focusing on this person, a stranger I already loved, my attention moved from fear to service. I shifted from fear to love.
Service overrides fear. When visited by doubt, focus on the larger reason or imaginary friend you’re writing for.
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Reema Zaman is an author, screenwriter, and speaker. Her books include the critically acclaimed memoir I Am Yours and Paramita: A Dystopian Matriarchy. She is the creator and writer of the TV show Snap. For media appearances, Reema is best known for her interview on Dear Sugars with Cheryl Strayed; her interview, Speaking as a Revolution on Layla Saad’s Good Ancestor Podcast, her interview on VICE News’ Strongman and her TEDxTalk, “The power of your no and the authority of your yes.” Reema’s work has appeared in Vogue, Ms. Magazine, The Guardian, Salon, and other leading outlets. Listen to her episode with Zibby on Moms Don’t Have Read Books here.