THIS WEEK
Opinion Disability memoirs
learned?” Given these instances, how can we ever fit the publishable narrative?
J L Hall
The writer and academic sets out why the publishing industry must make it possible for disabled authors to tell more diverse stories
Leaving hero culture O
narrators who have recovered, improved, or led an inspira- tional life in some way. For those of you who are not disabled or live without chronic illness, these are not the everyday stories of our lives. I live with Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder which is unlikely to be cured. Many of my writer friends and peers also live with long-term disabilities and condi- tions. On top of regular, daily life, we manage symptoms, healthcare, relapses and, if there is time, writing our own stories. We lack the hero’s recovery narrative arc because our conditions are ongoing, perhaps without further cure. This is common among the disabled and chronically ill lives of more than 14 million people in the UK. In the bookshops, I learn that in stories told by partners, siblings, parents or children as part of their own memoirs, the plight of their loved ones is depicted. But, when writing about our lives, it would seem that we have a memoir mould to fit. Despite being the largest minorit in the world, our life stories must be a unique or upliſting experience for a mostly well and non-disabled readership. Experiences that the book-jacket blurb can sell. But why? Why must our stories be remarkable, telling of sudden catastrophe and how we have come to recovery or to “ultimately find joy”? Why must we demonstrate “courage”, “determination” and “resilience” in “defying the odds”? Or, as an alternative, why must we be on an all-consuming “quest for a cure”? If we then don’t recover or become well, why must we write “wity truths” about our bodies and lives? Why must we “share the lessons
28 24th September 2021
As disabled and chronically ill writers, we are constantly aware of the recovery narrative arc that our own stories must fit, or that we must find these upliſting resolutions or tone. That literary agents are looking for “truly unusual” stories in memoir. As a result, writers struggle to shoehorn our lived experiences into the required arc and resultant transformation—our stories have no clear beginning, middle and end. If we are less able to publish our memoirs to fit the mould, then this keeps us marginalised. My life-writing piece, “Lucky,” in the A Wild and Precious
n the shelves of Edinburgh bookshops, it is hard to find memoirs writen by disabled and chronically ill writers. The few that I do uncover reveal common themes: an embatled quest for a cure which they at last discover, or a tale of recovery from a narrator who is leaving their dramatically ill, injured or disabled life behind. There are sages who learn life lessons, or humourists who see the bright side with laughs along the way. These are memoirs telling of the hero’s journey:
Why must our stories be remarkable, telling of sudden catastrophe and how we have come to recovery or to ‘ultimately find joy’?
Life anthology (Unbound), explored the realit: continuing to live with a condition for which there is litle respite, no cure and no magical transformation. I live with illness and, some days more than others, acceptance. Since the publication of the anthology, I have been contacted by numerous writers and readers expressing their relief for the honest of a narrative where I haven’t created a mental health meme of a happy ending and, as a result, they have been able to see themselves on the page. Outside of memoir, health-related titles writen by disabled or chronically ill authors as experts are growing within non-fiction. These books oſten centre on a condi- tion, and are underpinned with data and case studies, with a hybrid-memoir strand woven through. These books focus on knowledge rather than wholly on the authors’ lived experience. They are a vital step forward, but still do not fully share the authors’ own stories. There are a few authors who have published atpical memoirs: Porochista Khakpour’s Sick, Riva Lehrer’s Golem Girl, Sarah Ramey’s The Lady’s Handbook for Her Mysterious Illness, Josie George’s A Still Life, and Penny Pepper’s First in the World Somewhere all tell different stories—a struggle for diagnosis, acceptance, and a life lived alongside chronic illness and disabilit—but do not conclude with magical transformation. Add to these a sprinkling of anthologies, and a handful of celebrit or Instagrammer memoirs. Sadly, these are the exceptions. I welcome the growing arena of more representative disabled and chronically ill stories as a strand in health or psychology-related books. However, this is not enough to resolve the mismatch between our lived experiences and those we see on the shelves. To address this, the publishing industry needs to shiſt memoirs’ focus away from the hero’s recovery narrative. There must be more memoirs published by disabled and chronically ill writers because we need to be represented in varying tpes of stories which reflect our varying lives. Surely, while book sales grow and readers consume more memoirs, now is the time to publish ours. Only then can we begin to shiſt from the margins to the page.
J L Hall is an award-winning writer and academic based in Edinburgh. Her fiction, non-fiction, and poetry are widely published in print, podcasts and online, including “Lucky”, which features in the anthology A Wild and Precious Life (Unbound).
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