Writing from the Wound, Not the Scar: a Parisian approach to emotional honesty… writing in the present, not after the fact ….
When writing a memoir or fiction based on fact, you can write while it’s happening or when it is all over. Many writers wait until months or years have passed, when the lessons are clear and the narrator is wiser. I have done both, mostly waiting until the scab has dropped off and the scar is healing, but usually I’m writing notes or chapters while the pain is still raw. This is what I call “writing from the wound, not the scar.” It’s tempting to wait until we’ve healed to tell the story, so that we can write with hindsight. But sometimes in doing so, we lose something vital: the raw ongoing truth. There’s a different energy in the moments of heartbreak, uncertainty, or change. It’s unfiltered. It’s honest in a way that polished writing rarely is. Certain Parisian places draw moments of realization from me. There is a bench on a bridge, where the river Seine passes underneath and people cross without talking to each other. I’ve sat there and, somehow, that bridge always brings emotions to the surface. There is a small corner café. On rainy days, it glows from the inside out due to its bright yellow lights. Over a hot chocolate in winter, I scribbled lines in my notebook, not knowing what they were for. They eventually became a character’s turning point in a later story. And there is a winding side street near Montmartre where I’ve talked aloud to myself because I was sort of lost. I wrote that into a piece of writing then erased it so that no one could ever read the words. Nevertheless, the words helped me know what really mattered in my life at that moment. Paris doesn’t heal you, but it does let you release emotions without apology. Through these Parisian places and living in the moment, I’ve learned that writing while everything is happening preserves something essential: authenticity. I may not have the full story yet, but I have the moment and the raw, immediate sensation. When I read old journals or early drafts, I’m struck not by how unfinished they are, but by how emotive and atmospheric they are. Writing from the scar is easier. It’s filtered and tidy, and the wound is healing, but I think readers want more. When we dare to write from the wound, we offer our readers more. The more is: “I’m in it. And this is how it feels.” You can choose later to include “wounded writing” in the final draft, or not. You can write it privately, with no intention to share it. I think it’s important to write it because, although writing from the wound may not fix the pain, it acknowledges it.
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