Writing Around the Edges

a writing prompt for you

Aug 07, 2024

Welcome to Writing in Company.

This is a community for you, whatever your experience with writing. It’s an invitation to write about what matters—grief, gratitude, grace, and more. Each week I share some words and a writing prompt, meant to be jumping-off points, suggestions, starting places. Use the prompts however you like—to journal, to draft thoughts for your own writing project, as meditation or prayer ideas, or for another creative endeavor. You can always look back through the archive for more ideas. Grab your pen and paper, and let your words loose on the page.

Growing up on the Atlantic coast of Florida, the start of school was always punctuated by tropical storms. We’d load up on school supplies, pick out our first day outfits, then wait to see what weather would barrel in from the tropics to interrupt our teachers’ plans. Hurricane days were simultaneously filled with dread and a thrilling drama. We could see the approaching swirl on radar, but the results were never predictable, no matter what the forecasters said.

This week a sister and a niece flew south while Tropical Storm Debby rolled across the top of Florida, right over the airport where they were headed. The rest of the sisters—trained well by our former Navy pilot father—tracked their flight on FlightAware which gives you a real-time flight path along with weather radar, and then layers of possible worry you can upgrade to your day, from turbulence to ice to lightning to volcanic ash. (Did the rest of you grow up well-prepared to gather information on potential worries of all kinds? It’s a skill….)

I took a screenshot as the pilots navigated the storm. They made an unusual approach, flying around the edges of the storm until the very last minutes, when they slipped into a break in the bands of wind.

The picture reminded me of writing about stormy topics. Barreling headfirst into a difficult memory or story can feel daring and bold—even necessary—but the results might be hard, or even harmful. Writing towards the truth is sometimes best done around the edges.

Emily Dickinson wrote:

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Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Telling it slant is how I’ve learned to write about grief. I came at it sideways, and still do, often. I glance at memories of our Jack’s little hat, the consultation room in the hospital, the bruise on my hand from the IV, the shoes I wore to the funeral, the little shoes he never wore, the song my dad hummed in the car, the orange rolls someone brought. I start with that sidelong look at something specific that is nearby the main thing, and write around the edges, skirting the storm of loss and grief, navigating the currents on the page until my words sometimes take an unplanned turn, landing on something true. Something central. Something that was obscured from my vision before I sidled up to it. I might begin with an idea of where I want to land, but the writing wind might lead me somewhere wholly unexpected.

My group of fellow bereaved mothers had been writing together for at least four years before our wise pilot Carol had us write the narratives of the day our children died. Diving in to those charged memories took time. We had written and shared pages and pages about our children and ourselves by then. But we hadn’t yet tried to put the story of that day down, in order. Even after we did, most of us never shared those full narratives with the group. Some truths belong to the writer alone.

Because I had first written about the little objects, the tiny moments, the details that shimmered around the edges of that day, I was ready to turn and face the whole story, with a full and steady gaze. It came out on the page raw and unfiltered and fast, like turning on a tap on that had been building up water pressure behind it. Like I imagine a pilot might land a plane when trying to avoid a gale.

a writing prompt

I have two ideas for you to try.

The first is to look slant at something big and scary. Don’t begin by writing about the main thing, whatever it is. Look beside it, adjacent to it, at something approachable, something small like a concrete detail, or a sound, or something from the day before. Don’t try to start with writing about the day someone died. Write about the bird that greeted you at the cemetery, or the sandwich someone brought you the day after, or the haircut you got that you wish you could show them. Make a list of small details and memories surrounding a big thing, then choose one to zoom in on. Start writing about the small thing, and let your words go where they want to go.

The second idea is to literally write around the edges. Try writing about that small slant detail in a shape in your journal—maybe a spiral, or a heart, or an abstract shape—even a tropical storm swirl. See what develops as you get closer to the center. Maybe something important will land on the page. Or maybe you’ll get to the center and have written some words. That might be enough. Break out the colored pencils after if you want, like I did below.