"What's My Mom Going to Think?"

Questions We Ask When Our Memoir Is Finally Finished

Photo by Dương Hữu on Unsplash

Last week I posted the following message on my Substack:

Just sent my manuscript to beta readers and now I feel SICK—even though these beta readers are also my friends!

I'm an old writer, but a debut memoirist. Telling my story sure feels different than writing academic articles for students and colleagues. To all those brave souls who have published their personal journeys, you have my deep respect!

Finishing the draft of a large writing project is usually cause for celebration, but I've found this more complicated when it comes to my memoir. Unlike other writing projects, this one includes experiences from my adolescence—you know, that time in life when we make lots of mistakes so we can recalibrate before adulthood? Sending my manuscript out to beta readers caused me genuine anxiety.

When I investigated those feelings more closely, I realized I felt nervous because I had arrived at a destination I'd been avoiding: a conversation I need to have with my mother about the book's content.

I'm in my fifties, so it's been decades since I've asked myself, "What's my mom going to think?" in the nervous voice rolling that question around in my head. My mother and I share a close relationship, and she knows I've been writing a memoir, but I'm worried she'll find some of my stories upsetting.

The Layers of Meaning

When I teach interpersonal communication, I explain that messages are layered. The content-level meaning has to do with literal information. If I ask my husband to "please take out the trash," the content level suggests a simple request. The relational-level meaning, however, is more complex. This layer is impacted by context, perception, and nonverbal elements. Is my tone sharp? Does my husband resent that I hate taking out the trash and regularly ask him to do it? Do I make this request following a kiss or a fight?

It's not the content of my stories that makes me anxious to talk to my mom. Some might surprise her, but she's a grown woman. At seventy-seven, she understands that people make mistakes, and she already knows I was no angel in my teens and twenties.

What I do worry about are the relational-level meanings of our yet-to-be-had conversation. I worry she'll feel her privacy has been violated. My mother is a key character in the story of my life, and I love her deeply. My story reflects personal perceptions of our relational history. Will she see the emotional truth in my stories? Will she feel honored or disrespected? Seen or threatened? Proud or disappointed? How will my mom feel about reading my past, our past, her past . . . on the page?

From Creative Freedom to Publication Reality

When I first started writing this memoir, a teacher encouraged me not to worry about outcomes, so I didn't. “It’s more about process than product,” she said, and I believed this was good advice.

I let the words flow, focused on universal truth, and considered how best my narrative might help others. I had a story that needed to come out and honestly, it felt impossible not to write. I found healing through the writing process, so I opened up, dug deep, and learned valuable lessons along the way. I also knew the journey from writing to publication was long and fraught. Why worry about outcomes—like my mother's potential upset—if my memoir never got published?

And then I received a publication contract.

Bam! The what-will-my-mother-think question hit me like a ton of bricks.

Fortunately, I was reminded of why I started writing a memoir in the first place. After I shared my anxious Substack note, Jessica Ford, author of Pensive Perambulations, offered this comment:

I'm so glad that you are bravely sharing your memoir! It's especially vulnerable to share a personal story but, as I learned in your class, confidences bring us closer—glimmers of shared humanity. Hope to read your memoir one day soon, and I hope it feels easier after sharing it with beta readers!

If you've ever received words of encouragement at just the right moment, you know how I felt when I saw Jessica's note. (Thank you, Jessica! 😊)

Guidelines for Ethical Memoir Writing

I've read plenty of good advice from experienced memoirists. This genre has wrestled with how best to tell our stories for decades. Here are some key considerations when it comes to the personal content that fills our pages:

Note legal and ethical boundaries: Stick to your own experiences and perceptions rather than making definitive claims about others' motivations or private lives. Consider changing names and identifying details, especially for living people who haven't consented to being included.

Apply the "your truth" principle: Frame events as your experience and memory of them. Use phrases like "from my perspective" rather than presenting your version as absolute fact. Memory is subjective, and others may recall events differently.

Consider impact vs. necessity: Ask whether including potentially hurtful details serves the larger story or is simply score-settling. If a detail is crucial to your narrative arc or understanding of yourself, it may be worth including. If it's tangential gossip, consider cutting it.

Give people complexity: Avoid one-dimensional portrayals. Even difficult family members likely had moments of kindness or understandable motivations. This makes for better writing and fairer representation.

Inform when possible: Some memoirists share relevant sections with family members before publication, though this isn't always practical depending on your relationships and the content.

Okay, Mom. Looks like we'll be having a long conversation this week.

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Have you ever written something and then worried about the relational impacts of the piece? Did you share it with the person who might react negatively? How did it go? I'd love to hear from you in the comments!

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