The Joy of Non-Fiction

Thoughts on trusting my intuition and leaning into non-fiction

“Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.” - Ray Bradbury

When I came across the story of Aimee Henry and Mary Martha Parker, my original plan was to make it into a podcast. It was, after all, mid-pandemic, and podcasts were the auditory equivalent of baking sourdough, so that’s just how I saw the story going out into the world.

And, once I started down that path, I was committed.

I crafted the cliffhangers and connected the dots. I even included some foreshadowing, though thanks to Taylor Swift, that time-honored writing technique will forever be known as dropping Easter eggs, so there’s that.

Then, I made the mistake of reading the first chapter out loud into my phone. Hell no. There was not enough technology available to overcome the self-consciousness I experienced when I heard my own voice played back to me.

So, I scrapped the podcast, kept the project, and went on with my research.

About 16 months into the process and six months after I nixed the podcast format, my husband and I were eating dinner across the room from all those sticky notes when he casually mentioned he could see Aimee’s story as a historical fiction book.

I’m not sure it happened, but I remember his sentence sort of trailing off into a whisper at the end.

I definitely remember he refused to meet my gaze.

Years earlier, I’d told him about a different lost and found story I’d come across as a young writer. It was – and is – one of those once-in-a-lifetime stories that has the power to absolutely make or break a writer.

No pressure, right?

I was convinced my story was a historical fiction. And I knew just how to handle it.

I completed all the research, internalized the character profiles, mapped out the locations, and filled four plastic index card boxes with multicolored cards.

I read and broke down scores of books in dozens of different historical fiction genres and subgenres, all with similar themes, plots and subplots, timelines, and even historical context.

And then I sat down and started writing.

Over the course of about a year, I wrote hundreds of pages, over 125,000 words, diligently fitting my once-in-a-lifetime story into a historical fiction-shaped box.

But the more I wrote, the more miserable I got.

My confidence disappeared. I second-guessed every decision, I deleted more pages than I saved, and I lost every bit of excitement I’d ever had for the story.

In the end, that perfect story never got written. It ended up in a duct-taped Amazon box at the bottom of the guest room linen closet. It is still there, gathering dust.

And me? I ran back as fast as I could to non-fiction — something I knew I was good at, had already found success writing and brought me joy.

I spent the next dozen years authoring several books, crafting family history and genealogy pieces, and anonymously penning a long-running and often controversial daily blog that was widely quoted in prominent newspapers in the US and Middle East, and routinely listed at the top of its niche.

I woke up excited to write, filled with ideas and, most importantly, happy.

So, when my husband suggested I take another stab at historical fiction, my answer was a hard no. I was not going to put my face back into the blender for Aimee Henry and Mary Martha Parker.

Then, a little voice in my head popped up.

What if he’s right? What if this is a historical fiction book?

For the next eight months, I tried. I mean, I really tried. Every day, I woke up and wrote, and every night, there were a few more pages in my folder.

I could do it, I knew. I could craft 100-word descriptions like this of an imaginary banister in Mary Martha’s imaginary home:

The banister was more than just a structural element; it was a silent witness to the countless lives that had ascended and descended the grand staircase, its surface worn smooth in places by the touch of generations. Carved newel posts, capped with polished brass finials, anchored the banister at each landing, their intricate designs echoing the architectural finesse of the home. This mahogany masterpiece, with its deep, reddish-brown hues and silky finish, caught the light streaming through the tall, leaded glass windows, casting a warm glow that danced along its length, infusing the space with a quiet, dignified beauty that was quintessentially Brahmin.

But why would I want to if it didn’t bring me any joy?

One morning, I closed the historical fiction folder and moved it over to our archive server, and then I created a non-fiction folder.

For the first time in months, I could breath.

Two months later, the first draft of the serialized version of Call Me a Bastard was completed.

Three months after that, I hit the Publish button here at The Lost & Found Story Box, and the true story of Aimee Henry and Mary Martha went live.

Just between us, I did a little happy dance that morning.

As Call Me a Bastard makes its way out into the world, and as readers reach out to tell me that this story has them talking in new ways about things like belonging and secret-keeping, mental health, illegitimacy and family dynamics, I’m still dancing.

And so very, very grateful I got out of the way, and let my intuition lead.

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