A Writing Tip by Layla Murphy
WRITE LIKE YOU’RE DYING
Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
I never knew what a death doula was until I listened to an episode of NPR’s Life Kit the other day focused on relationship repair. It seemed odd at first that a podcast episode on relationship repair—presumably with other, living, people—would include a segment on death. But the relationship to be repaired by these end-of-life caregivers is our relationship with death itself.
Death is scary. It’s taboo. It’s uncomfortable, and it’s painful. And, I think engaging meaningfully with death would make us all better writers. In arguing that we ought to confront death earlier, more frequently, and more head-on, my take is very similar to that of the death doula who appeared as a guest on this episode of NPR. Her name is Alua Arthur, and she quickly convinced me that the key to a sensually and emotionally full life is a true understanding of what it means to die, and of what becomes important when we know that our life is coming to its end. Arthur’s clients wanted to just taste their favorite souffle, or feel the sun on their face, not, say, go to Machu Picchu. Learning about their lived experiences in dying, and hearing all the beautiful things they felt like doing at the end, seemed very much like a list of the best things to write about.
So my tip is to complete an exercise in perspective-taking to get in touch with the content of a truly full, sensuous life—and then write about that. Think, what exactly would you want to do with your time if you had very little time left? Based on what Arthur shared of her own clients, I have a few thoughts. Perhaps you would want to rewatch your favorite movie. Or listen to all your favorite music. Likely, you’d have a list of foods you would want to taste—maybe after a lifetime of dieting. And I mean really taste them. You’d want to let the dark chocolate melt away on your tongue, and to relish it sensually, and completely. You would want a massage, maybe: The feeling of another’s fingers on your shoulders one last time, or the sensation of a lover stroking their thumb across your hand. You would want to smell a fresh fire, and to smell Christmas. You would want to hear your grandparents tell you they love you. You would want to tell them you love them. In fact, there are so many people you’d want to express your love to—and you would want to do it with abandon. With locked eyes, or faces touching each other, feeling each other’s love. You would want to go swimming in the middle of the night, in the cold, and feel the air get knocked out of your lungs, and the blood rush through you to warm you up in the water. You would want a pint of your favorite beer. You would want a soft blanket around you and you’d want to take a delicious nap. If you doubt that this is what becomes important at the end of life, I encourage you to listen to Alua Arthur speak from experience and expertise.
All that feeling, all that sensation, all that emotion, is what I think we often try to get at with other writing prompts and exercises. We want to share detailed experiences with other people, our readers, so we try going for walks and writing down what we see. We try writing down all we can write about, say, oranges. We try to write by hand, or in the dark without looking. But what are we writing about? What is the good, really good writing, really talking about? In my view, great writing gets at all the things that would feel important to us as we’re dying. Writing about real love, real perception and reaction. How good it feels to get your hands in the soil under a temperate sun, and the smell of rain that just ended, or that’s anxious to begin. The perspective-taking exercise forces us to get really descriptive, which is a hallmark of compelling poetry and prose. What is it about the cherry that is so gratifying? What is the experience of eating it really like? Can you tell me that? Are you able to articulate the sensuousness? Can you make me think about dying, and can you make me love the way I feel when I take that perspective? Can you make me love, truly love, the experience of it, through your writing? Tell me about the peach fuzz on my face touching the peach fuzz on the face of my mother as I kiss her goodnight. Tell me about the juice falling down around my chin when I bite a perfect, cold, crisp, red apple. Tell me about the woozy way I feel when I’ve been sitting out in the sun for too long, next to a gentle ocean and the murmur of other beach-goers just like me. Tell me about how much I love them, and how. That will make for good writing.
My tip, then, is to write like you are dying. I hope it helps you to write well. But more than that, I hope it helps you to live more expansively, more self-indulgently. And to share that life, that full life, with everyone around you—your readers, of course, included.
Cleaver newsletter editor Layla Murphy is an Iranian-American writer—when she’s not being a refugee resettlement case manager, a restaurant host, or a Spanish tutor, that is. While a student at the University of Pennsylvania, she co-founded Quake Magazine, a publication dedicated to exploring sex and sexuality through art. She has also written for 34th Street Magazine and The Daily Pennsylvanian. Read her essays and poetry on a personal blog: aslongastherearepoppies.com. Got a Writing Tip for our newsletter and feature? Email her at [email protected]. View her bio page here.
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