Is writing a memoir cathartic?

Illustration copyright Matt Clare at Mono Design

During the past year, when I have told people the book I was writing was a memoir, one of the most common responses they had was to say, “That must be cathartic.”

To me, these people (most of whom like to point out to me that they don’t read memoir) seemed to have the notion that a memoir was like a journal; an unfiltered blah about your life heaped onto a page.

My initial response was to bristle at the implication. I was writing a BOOK for God’s sake! A serious tome of great literary value! I was not (insert shudder here) keeping a journal (sniffs and walks off).

I found myself saying to these non-memoir reading folk, “I have had a lot of therapy. I would definitely say I found that cathartic. I’m not sure I would use that word to describe the process of writing a book.”

But on reflection, I think there has been catharsis during the creation of ENEMY (my book).

The word catharsis means:
1. the purging of the emotions or relieving of emotional tensions, especially through certain kinds of art.
2.  the discharge of pent-up emotions so as to result in the alleviation of symptoms or the permanent relief of the condition.

 In relation to definition one, I have definitely found myself shaking with fear, sobbing or laughing during the writing of this book, so there is that. (But I also think many creators of works of fiction describe having these bodily responses as they write. How else can you give authentic form to intense emotional moments?).

But not only did I feel those feelings, when I now look back on the memories from which they sprang, they don’t seem to have the same hold on me. It feels like much of the emotional energy tied to those moments are trapped inside the book (kind of like Voldemort putting part of his soul into the diary Ginny writes in in Harry Potter, though hopefully with less potential for part of my soul to be killed if someone stabs the book with a Basalisk fang).

Looking at the second definition of catharsis, it is the word permanent that stands out for me. Only time will tell, but I do feel there may have been a profound ongoing shift in the way I think about my Dad after writing this book.

It is true, a large part of ENEMY involved bearing witness for the child whose voice was never heard. But the other part of the book, the research into the Vietnam War, trying to understand what it was like for boys who were sent there to fight (Dad included), and what they went through when they returned to home soil, that process of discovery has ceased to be an intellectual exercise for me.

By struggling against my innate desire to continue to see things from my childhood perspective – black and white, right and wrong – I have allowed my memories of Dad to soften into a more complicated shade of grey.

Douglas Robert Callum was not only my father. He was also an innocent boy, who at the age of 20 was conscripted to fight in the Vietnam War. He came back damaged. He needed help. He didn’t get it. His family bore the brunt of his pain.

The way I now see my dad will forever be re-shaped by my understanding of all he endured, and the inner battles he was struggling with. I could never condone or justify many of his actions, but I have tapped into a well of genuine compassion for him that I really hope is permanent.

So if anyone now asks me if writing a memoir has been cathartic, I believe I can answer yes.

ENEMY is due for release in March 2016 through Penguin Books.