When Our Words Become a Commodity

What happens when we write private conversations?

By Trish McDonald

“Thank you for loving me,” he whispered as I turned up the hem on his velvet Christmas dress. No one had ever thanked me for loving them.

I look at my draft. Should our words be kept private? Am I cheapening them by sharing? Is this a fear other writers have? Do they parse their words to protect loved ones? I can write this, but never that.

“Once I published that book and my words became a commodity, something broke between us,” writes Lily King in Euphoria, a fictional account of a brief period in the life of the anthropologist, Margaret Mead. It’s the story of a field expedition to New Guinea, a love triangle, and professional rivalry between the researchers. At one point, Nell Stone (Mead) decides to publish her notes in her name only, instead of including her husband. In retrospect, she realizes her publication of their private conversations will destroy the relationship.

As I’m reading King’s words, I stop and reread the sentence. A warning. I copy the sentence down, underlining, highlighting. If I publish our words, will it harm our relationship?

Would our words become a commodity, publicly traded, like a stock? Would they yield merchandise like T-shirt sayings, coffee mugs, bumper stickers? 

I decide on autofiction as my narrative form and keep writing. I’m introduced to the voice, the method, and the stirrings of courage I’d need via Alexander Chee’s How To Write An Autobiographical Novel. Chee used essays. In my story of gender fluidity, I would attack my own biases— perfectionism, shame, unworthiness. At the age of seventy-seven, amid the expectations of the culture where I live in Florida, in the current political climate, I plot my strategy to leave a legacy of hope.

After Paper Bags was published, I feared judgment by others because of my revelations. Curiosity had driven me to write about gender fluidity and a sense of wonder helped me to accept things I didn’t understand. I imagined I’d be an activist and stand on a platform, but for now I’m happy to be a bridge to a deeper conversation about human rights.

Who do our written words belong to? Once published they become a product—vendible, material, and for a lucky few, evergreen. I’m of the “No Expiration on Dreams” philosophy. I’ve picked out the artwork for Paper Bags greeting cards, sticky notes, and guest towels. They’re embellished with: Thank you for loving me.

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Trish McDonald is the author of Paper Bags, a story of self-discovery, metamorphosis, and gender fluidity. According to her DNA profile, McDonald is 86% Irish. For a storyteller, this “blarney” heritage comes in handy when writing about issues of trauma. An avid camper, McDonald lives in a tiny house in an RV park in Southwest Florida. Her writing has appeared in Oldster Magazine, Maudlin House, and Shout-Out Miami. Learn more about her work at her website.