The first time I ever wrote something I asked somebody else to read, I think I was 12. It was a poem about heartache – sweet, earnest, and unashamed. My best friend and I were to be separated between different high schools, and my sweet waves of melodramatic dread made for tender verses my mum thought seemed very … feeling (code for cringe).

Age 13 – 16 was an era of constant low-level embarrassment – where, despite loving the idea of writing, the thought of it being shared struck such a nerve I felt panicked. Granted, my panic list was accompanied by mundane things such as carrying an umbrella to school, walking through the store with mum, riding my bike with a helmet, and wearing leggings that stopped too soon above my ankles. As an unfortunately overly concerned teenager, I was clearly dealing with needless turmoil.

Finally, I would step free from my insecurity thicket into a slightly more open field of nervous shrubbery. I have noticed the constraints on my creativity evolve. Now, different concerns receive greater emphasis. Less fearful of looking uncool, I now wonder – what’s the point? Nothing I paint or write will ever be as good as what someone else has done, or continues to do, so it’s best I just maximise my efficiency and stick to what I know is of value (earning income, etc).

Despite the haters (me) I want to know how to continue to find time to be creative and embrace its inherent vulnerability. I caught up with Madison Griffiths, a writer, artist, and producer whose work has appeared in the Guardian, VICE, The Age, SBS, Overland, Meanjin, Kill your Darlings and more. They wrote and produced the critically acclaimed podcast Tender, which follows what happens after women leave abusive relationships.

Her debut novel, Tissue, is set for release this July. The book is a meditative, personal look at abortion. A common procedure they describe as ‘championed yet grieved’, this collection of essays reflects on the associated emotion and experiences faced in its aftermath while unravelling the social responses to this politicised act of agency.

I asked Madison how they use vulnerability to be creative, rather than shrink away from it. 

“[the vulnerability] has never stopped being terrifying”, she begins, “but people are reading to understand a part of themselves. I’m not writing about my whole self because this isn’t my personal journal – I’m creating a kind of ‘character’ and I can define my limits.”

“To try to capture everything is too much. You learn what your limits are, what you can include, and what you can pull back on. You learn to strike that right balance, and so speak to what the reader is looking for but pulling back before you push yourself too far. Your own limit is the point where you will no longer be adding to the piece, but now allowing it to take something from you.”

Madison explains that she can define these limits once editing. Tracing through her lived experience, she will go through and begin to read her work with the imagined audience in mind. By leveraging both personal experience and creativity, it is here she decides what the lesson will be, and how to relate to a reader.  

“I start by creating the story in one part of my brain, then I go broader – where can I find analogies?  When you’re writing, you can’t think about anyone else. Then, when you go over it, think about what elements, what metaphors and what characters will bolster the story. Those small analogies are what an audience will connect with, the feel of your keys, the first person you fuck in a new city. you know what experience is yours, but you need to find what experience is shared.”

The purpose or mission is what structures Madison’s writing, it’s the lasting idea or impression she wants to leave with an audience. This idea is what a reader can relate to and see within their own lives, and in this sense, allows an author’s story to connect with theirs. 

“You’re not highlighting facts, you’re highlighting a story, and this story has to have a mission. Once you edit, it’s like you can begin to imagine a story where you can erase yourself, and then you don’t.”

I ask her how she feels about publishing a piece knowing that, inevitably, her perspective on experiences and opinions will naturally develop or change.

“You should never feel owned by the writing,” she explains. “Don’t be afraid to show the nuance of existing, and how that changes.”

While publishing creative work will likely always be a vulnerable act, Madison tells me she has learnt to trust herself enough to overcome the uncertainty. For the most part, her reader’s responses are encouraging.

“The challenge is getting your first stuff out. It’s scary, but I’m okay. Nothing really that bad has ever happened. However, there are these really weird Reddit posts coming at me. Men online creating these verbose paragraphs on how much they hate me.”

Her advice for anyone interested in publishing personal essays of their own is to “look broader, create something timely.”

“When you’re stuck in the muddiness of what to write, think about the specifics. What specific things was I doing that day that I can draw from? For example, when I was trying to begin an article about my queer experience, I just thought about – when was the first time I ever had a queer sexual experience? It was when I was a kid playing Sims Three.”

Hence her 2017 Vice article, ‘The Sims and Sexuality, How the Game Let Me Explore Mine’.

Accessing vulnerability and writing a personal essay is about the process. Inspired by the work of great writers such as Joan Didion, Madison tells me – “you need to figure out what you know and what you love. Then, read widely. I’ll pluck out my favourite news article and I’ll close read other people’s work. For some long reads, I like Paris Review, New Yorker, Overland and Catapult. For something longer, I can create a bibliography of over 3000 words.”

So, empowered and inspired by the vulnerability of others, plus the joy drawn from the act itself, creativity will always be innately terrifying, yet seemingly worthwhile.

Demure Magazine: https://demuremag.com/literature-2/madison-griffiths-writing-vulnerability