For years I was ashamed of being a writer. I certainly never identified myself as one. In jail, all I did was read and write and when an inmate would ask me “Hey Bobbo, why you always writing in that notebook?” I’d answer them with sarcasm and a little humiliation. “Cause I can’t sing and I can’t fuckin’ dance, that’s why. Do your own time, will ya?”

These days I embrace being called a writer, after all I’ve been called worse. I’ve been recognized by my peers as an author and I’ve had my work published. Let me tell you folks, that’s a great feeling.

Now I’m going to tell you a bit about how I do it.

I don’t know how many of you were fans of comic books growing up, but one of my favorite titles was What If? By Marvel comics. Every month the issue would have stories postulating what would happen if a key event in comics history had been changed or never happened. Stories like What if Spider Mans Uncle Ben never died? For those of you who aren’t comic book geeks like me, Peter Parker’s beloved Uncle was shot and killed by a mugger, a tragedy that convinced the young man to use his newly-developed super-powers to help people and fight crime.

Those books inspired me to start writing and taught me the first important lesson about creating stories, which is write what you know. The fiction comes when you ask what if?

It works no matter who you are or what you do. For example, if you’re a gas station attendant, you know what your normal shift consists of. A car rolls up to the pumps, you jog out to the driver’s window and find out how much petro they want. Would they like their fluids checked? That kinda thing.

In your story though, maybe you notice the man behind the wheel looks sweaty and nervous. Maybe he doesn’t look at you as he tells you to fill the tank, instead he stares straight ahead and seems impatient. His hands are locked on the steering wheel, and is that blood you see on his fingers? You think it might be.

Should you ask him if he’s okay? The thought crosses your mind but judging by the driver’s quick speech and demeanor, you decide to just give him his gas and let him go on his way. He probably just got in a fist-fight, it’s no big deal and none of your business anyway.

You walk to the rear of the vehicle, pop open the little fuel door and unscrew the lid to the fuel receptacle. Just as you grab the hose and activate the pump you hear a knocking coming from the trunk. The driver heard it too, because the car door opens and he steps out….

Of course there’s a million ways to do this, and just as many ways to tell the story. The example above is told in the first-person point of view, but I find it’s more fun to create a character to substitute for yourself. Instead of You, the gas bar attendant, a writer can create a whole new person with his or her own look, manner of speaking, weaknesses and strengths, nervous ticks and so on. This fictional person has all the knowledge and experience working as a petro-pump jockey as you do, except they might react differently to things. That’s part of the fun of creating your own make-believe people.

– Robert Dominelli

Pondering some of the creative non-fiction I have written and subsequently published, I realize that the themes or subject matter definitely relate to times of loss and grieving. Without exception, the writing of these stories helped me through the dark passage of grief toward the light at the end of the tunnel—the light of acceptance and validation, and peace.

Giving yourself the permission to vent your sorrow and express your feelings on the non-judgmental page, by stroke of pen or computer keys, you inevitably spark the flame of creativity. Allowing yourself a means of being creative, you are going inward to the depths of your soul: the place that  sustains your spirit. And during times of loss, grief, and suffering, you need to be in touch with yourself, and connect with all things that bring purpose to your life and elevate your spirit.

There is a purpose in spilling your emotions on the page. For Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, “writing is a psychological as well as a physical activity.” (p. 28, The Right to Write, Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam, 1998. “Writing is medicine. It is an appropriate antidote to injury. It is an appropriate companion for any difficult change.” “Writing about the change, we can help it along, lean into it, cooperate. Writing allows us to rewrite our lives.” (p. 31, ibid.)

In my story “Daddy’s Girl,” I reflect on the deteriorating health of my father, who has Parkinson’s Disease and has been hospitalized after a heart attack in 2000. Writing this story after spending hours and days with Dad in the hospital, observing the comings and goings of staff, noting Dad’s actions and reactions, I come to terms with his limitations, and I accept my own in the face of his decline.

Sorrowfully, I think about the colour being leached from his life, fading like a photograph exposed to too much sunlight. 

Memories return like snapshots: my father comforting me after a bad dream; helping me with Grade 5 math; buying me a huge blackboard for my 11th birthday; puttering in his garden; raising rabbits and chickens; laughing at the antics of my baby daughter; holding my newborn son; learning he has Parkinson’s disease; becoming stiffer as his illness progresses; crying when I rub his aching back with liniment; doing ‘Tai Chi for Parkinson’s’ video exercises; squeezing my hand in the emergency room . . .

Tearfully, I pray that my father is blessed with sweet dreams. In brilliant colour.  (pp. 270-271, Mamma Mia! Good Italian Girls Talk Back, ECW Press, Toronto, 2004)

In another story, “Angel of God,” I revisit the details of my sister Pina’s death at seventeen, the result of peritonitis from a ruptured appendix. I was fifteen at the time, but it was not until another loss in my life seventeen years later, the ending of my first marriage, that I truly felt the ache of her absence. What I would have given for my sister’s comforting arms, her support. I eventually wrote the story one night after a weekend away with some friends, and the dam that had built since Pina’s death burst as my words appeared on the computer screen. I felt the immensity of the loss. The trauma. Within the story is a letter I wrote to Pina, sharing my sadness and loneliness. My tears flowed steadily, and when the story came to an end, I felt the heavy yoke of repressed grief dissolve.

When I completed the letter, I was spent emotionally, but at peace. I had finally mourned my sister. And from that moment, I felt her angel wings embracing me, giving me the strength I needed to carry on.  (p. 62, Canadian Woman Studies, Women Writing 3:  Journeys, Inanna Publications and Education, Inc., 2007)

For more information, I strongly recommend Louise DeSalvo’s book: Writing As A Way Of Healing:  How Telling Our Stories Transforms Our Lives, Beacon Press, Boston, 1999.