Jane Eyre was one of my favorite books as a kid, the memorable Joan Fontaine and Orson Welles movie version providing the visuals for its gothic intensity. In the taffy slow early days of the pandemic, I reread Charlotte Brontë’s classic, as well as her sister Emily’s harder-to-stomach Wuthering Heights. I went on a Brontë binge, reading biographies and articles about the family, their quirks and talents. The Brontës lived hard lives in hard times, none of the siblings making it to 40. Lately I’ve gotten caught up in the topic again, my 1:30am (or earlier!) insomnia bouts spent reading Claire Harman’s biography of Charlotte, A Fiery Heart.

Paging through the book feels strangely familiar. I already know the facts. Is this a re-read, my first go-round wiped out by pandemic stress? Did I crack open some similar biography between then and now? Everything new is old again. What strikes me this time around is the determination of the three spinster sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. Stuck at home with a dissipated brother and uninvolved curate father (their mother and two other sisters long dead), these women knew they had to take care of business. Money was tight. Remaining governesses or schoolteachers was unappealing. So the sisters decided to become published authors. Their first step was to have a collection of their poetry printed pseudonymously. From there they worked together (and sometimes separately) to write and shop their subsequent manuscripts out to publishers.

As the siblings were working on their publishing plan, their brother died of tuberculosis. Not long after their books were published, Emily and Anne succumbed to the disease.. About six years after later Charlotte passed away at 38, likely due to severe morning sickness.

The Brontës were a peculiar, self-contained set of siblings, from childhood onward caught up in writing elaborate and fantastical stories. Creation was part of how they navigated and tolerated the world. But why am I so taken their determination and penurious circumstances? Perhaps I need inspiration, a reminder to stay the course (or to at least get on the boat).

 I, dear reader, am also about to become a published author. What I have written has little in common with Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights. Because it is in the self-help and self-development genre, it does not tell a melodramatic story or dazzle the mind with its extended and deep metaphors. But I worked hard at it, tried my best to make it useful and well-written, and got paid to do it. Having a deadline and a writing structure kept me going. It got me published by an actual publisher in a way that this blog, something I’ve been writing in for almost fourteen years, did not. 

Over the years, I’ve grappled with how I could do the sort of writing I enjoy, the stuff that shows up on writing survive, in a more public way, to allow the personal to exist within the professional. This brings up internal conflicts and questions. What does it mean to share my inner thoughts as a psychotherapist? What if this is terribly unprofessional? What happens if a client or a colleague reads this blog? Will anyone, outside of the perhaps three people who are longtime readers, care about what I write? What is the point of writing—here, or anywhere else? How do I make this authentic and yet appealing to others? What if my authenticity is unappealing to others?

Perhaps I think too much. Ultimately, I’d like to write here more often, and not completely anonymously. I don’t want to make a big deal out of this tentative plan or spend too much time crafting my posts. But I hope to slowly meld the personal and professional into something that has a shape and form, has a life of its own, and is authentically mine.

(Oh – and my book is called 52-Week Grief Journal:  Prompts and Reflections for Navigating Loss. For more information, take a look at amazon.)