Lori Gottlieb is the New York Times bestselling author of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone. The book grew out of a relationship that drove Gottlieb, a psychotherapist, to see a therapist herself. She had to learn in a deeply personal way the kinds of things she helps her patients understand about longing, identity, and connection. She writes with candor and wit about a painful, sometimes humiliating process and why every moment of it was worth it.
Baldwin Prize founder Lionel Foster spoke with Gottlieb about how she turned raw personal experience into a story that is connecting with millions of strangers.
Edited by David Dudley
How old were you when you started writing for more than just school assignments? Was it always something you liked to do?
When I was younger, I kept diaries, but I kept them hidden. I never thought I would be a writer, although I always loved reading. I loved the way it could take me to other worlds and help me to see myself in other people's experiences. I took a lot of solace in books, especially when things were hard.
When I decided to go to medical school, I went looking for my old science notes, and I found this diary. I shared it with a friend who had grown up with me. He was a writer, and he said, “This is a book—you should make this into a book.” I said, “Why would anybody want to read that?” But he was right. And it became my first book. And then I started really enjoying the process of writing.
That’s such a good question: Why would anyone want to read that? Something might resonate with you personally, but it requires work and some kind of transmutation for it to feel relevant for people who aren't connected to that experience. How do you move from the intensely personal to something that's relatable to others?
I used to think that if it was very personal, nobody would relate to it. But I’ve come to realize that the personal is universal. Even if somebody hasn't had that exact experience, they will see aspects of themselves in your experience. We really are more the same than we are different. You’ve experienced those emotions: You've experienced shame, sadness, anxiety, anger, feeling mischaracterized—the taboo feelings like envy. Everybody experiences those. The more we put them out there, the more people say, “Oh, you understand me.”
I think you're absolutely right. If you step out and show yourself, warts and all, it opens up something in other people and allows them to do the same thing. Why do we have these taboos? Every time I've taken that step, people have responded positively.
Because we don't realize how normal we are. We feel like, “Oh, people are going to see something about me that's going to make them not like me—they’ll think something's wrong with me.” The opposite is what actually happens. The more you tell the truth of your story, the more you draw people towards you.
So there's the truth and sometimes the rawness of that experience. But there’s also writerly craft and technique. Can you talk about that? Because you need both.
That's exactly right. Anne Lamott, who wrote a great book about writing called Bird by Bird, talks about “shitty first drafts.” Your first draft is just getting it on paper.
Everyone's story has an inherent narrative: There's a beginning, middle, and end. The end doesn't have to be, “And now it's all better” or “Now we’ve solved that.” The end might be a new emotional place you got to, even if you're still struggling. How did you go from the place you started to the place you are now?
As you go from one draft to another, is there anything about that process you find especially difficult?
There’s a temptation to clean yourself up in the second draft. We get self-conscious. Don’t do that, because you'll be taking out the realness, the authenticity.
In my new book, I don't come off in the way I would want to present myself to the world. There was a temptation to say, “Do I really have to show how clueless I was? Do I have to show how resistant I was to seeing what was right in front of me? Do I have to show that session where I just cried the whole time? Do I have to show that I couldn't hold it together and I was falling apart on my bedroom floor?” And, yes, I did have to show that, because that was true to the story.
Sometimes, what we need to clean up in the second draft is too many words: Often less is more. You can show a scene, but you don't have to show the play-by-play. You show the emotional resonance of the scene.
How do you know what to strip away?
It’s important to get another reader. In my case, I have editors. The editor will say, “This wasn't clear to me,” or “I don't think we need this,” or “We need to move this up.” They’ll help you with structure and pacing and telling the story in a way that makes sense to the reader. We know our stories, so sometimes we don't realize we're not being clear. We fill in the gaps in our mind. But the reader is hearing it for the first time.
At the end of that process, what’s it feel like to finally be done?
It feels great when you push “send” on that manuscript. Remember, you’ve gone through lots of drafts at this point. When you turn it in, you feel, “Ah, that was great.” And then, like three weeks later, you've got to rewrite the whole thing.
You have to relish the moments of accomplishment, because writing is hard. A lot of people look at successful authors and think it's easy: They just write these books, and it just magically happens. It doesn’t. It's hard to sit down and not get distracted by the Internet or whatever. You need the discipline to say, “I'm going to sit down for an hour of uninterrupted time, and this is all I'm going to do.”
And when you do that, it makes you feel so good, even if it didn’t seem like you accomplished something. Maybe it wasn't a good writing day, but just write something. Regardless of what happens in terms of publishing, it feels good to sit down and clear your mind and understand more about what was inside of you.
When I was an opinion columnist, I wrote about social policy issues from a very personal perspective, and I thought hard about how much of other people’s stories and identities to expose. I imagine that's something you do, too. Your son is in this book, for example, and so is your significant other. How do you know how much of other people's stories to expose as you tell your own?
That's a great question. My son got to read the parts he was in and give me thumbs-up or thumbs-down. That was important, because I don't want to tell his story in a way that he doesn't feel reflects his experience.
In terms of the romantic relationship, you know, I call him “Boyfriend” in the book. I never use his name, and I don't give away a lot of detail. What's interesting is he starts off as a villain, but as I grow, we realize that I had a role in this, too. I think that's more interesting for readers. I was doing a lot of the same things, and I didn't realize it. That humanized both of us. You can't just write about somebody else from a place of anger: You have to find a place of empathy for who they are and why they did what they did.
So the Baldwin Prize was inspired by the life and work of James Baldwin, and you have at least one quote from Baldwin in your book: “Nothing is more desirable than to be released from an affliction. But nothing is more frightening than to be divested of a crutch.” What’s your relationship to Baldwin's work?
I think that Baldwin was one of these people who really wrote honestly and personally about his life. And I'm always drawn to memoir. I'm always drawn to people's real stories. When someone says, “This was my experience, and I'm going to share it with you,” that is so bold.
I'm doing this interview for high school students who are learning how to become better writers. What else do you think they should know?
It’s really important for them to believe in themselves. They’re going to face people who aren't fans of their work. You can't let those voices overpower you. You have a story to tell, and it's important, and someone will respond. Don't give up because you got some negative feedback: Use that to fuel you to improve your writing.
So many times people think—like I thought—“nobody wants to hear this story.” No, we do. We actually want to hear your story. Never think that somebody doesn't want to hear your story. Your story is inherently interesting.
Baldwin Prize founder Lionel Foster spoke with Gottlieb about how she turned raw personal experience into a story that is connecting with millions of strangers.
Edited by David Dudley
How old were you when you started writing for more than just school assignments? Was it always something you liked to do?
When I was younger, I kept diaries, but I kept them hidden. I never thought I would be a writer, although I always loved reading. I loved the way it could take me to other worlds and help me to see myself in other people's experiences. I took a lot of solace in books, especially when things were hard.
When I decided to go to medical school, I went looking for my old science notes, and I found this diary. I shared it with a friend who had grown up with me. He was a writer, and he said, “This is a book—you should make this into a book.” I said, “Why would anybody want to read that?” But he was right. And it became my first book. And then I started really enjoying the process of writing.
That’s such a good question: Why would anyone want to read that? Something might resonate with you personally, but it requires work and some kind of transmutation for it to feel relevant for people who aren't connected to that experience. How do you move from the intensely personal to something that's relatable to others?
I used to think that if it was very personal, nobody would relate to it. But I’ve come to realize that the personal is universal. Even if somebody hasn't had that exact experience, they will see aspects of themselves in your experience. We really are more the same than we are different. You’ve experienced those emotions: You've experienced shame, sadness, anxiety, anger, feeling mischaracterized—the taboo feelings like envy. Everybody experiences those. The more we put them out there, the more people say, “Oh, you understand me.”
I think you're absolutely right. If you step out and show yourself, warts and all, it opens up something in other people and allows them to do the same thing. Why do we have these taboos? Every time I've taken that step, people have responded positively.
Because we don't realize how normal we are. We feel like, “Oh, people are going to see something about me that's going to make them not like me—they’ll think something's wrong with me.” The opposite is what actually happens. The more you tell the truth of your story, the more you draw people towards you.
So there's the truth and sometimes the rawness of that experience. But there’s also writerly craft and technique. Can you talk about that? Because you need both.
That's exactly right. Anne Lamott, who wrote a great book about writing called Bird by Bird, talks about “shitty first drafts.” Your first draft is just getting it on paper.
Everyone's story has an inherent narrative: There's a beginning, middle, and end. The end doesn't have to be, “And now it's all better” or “Now we’ve solved that.” The end might be a new emotional place you got to, even if you're still struggling. How did you go from the place you started to the place you are now?
As you go from one draft to another, is there anything about that process you find especially difficult?
There’s a temptation to clean yourself up in the second draft. We get self-conscious. Don’t do that, because you'll be taking out the realness, the authenticity.
In my new book, I don't come off in the way I would want to present myself to the world. There was a temptation to say, “Do I really have to show how clueless I was? Do I have to show how resistant I was to seeing what was right in front of me? Do I have to show that session where I just cried the whole time? Do I have to show that I couldn't hold it together and I was falling apart on my bedroom floor?” And, yes, I did have to show that, because that was true to the story.
Sometimes, what we need to clean up in the second draft is too many words: Often less is more. You can show a scene, but you don't have to show the play-by-play. You show the emotional resonance of the scene.
How do you know what to strip away?
It’s important to get another reader. In my case, I have editors. The editor will say, “This wasn't clear to me,” or “I don't think we need this,” or “We need to move this up.” They’ll help you with structure and pacing and telling the story in a way that makes sense to the reader. We know our stories, so sometimes we don't realize we're not being clear. We fill in the gaps in our mind. But the reader is hearing it for the first time.
At the end of that process, what’s it feel like to finally be done?
It feels great when you push “send” on that manuscript. Remember, you’ve gone through lots of drafts at this point. When you turn it in, you feel, “Ah, that was great.” And then, like three weeks later, you've got to rewrite the whole thing.
You have to relish the moments of accomplishment, because writing is hard. A lot of people look at successful authors and think it's easy: They just write these books, and it just magically happens. It doesn’t. It's hard to sit down and not get distracted by the Internet or whatever. You need the discipline to say, “I'm going to sit down for an hour of uninterrupted time, and this is all I'm going to do.”
And when you do that, it makes you feel so good, even if it didn’t seem like you accomplished something. Maybe it wasn't a good writing day, but just write something. Regardless of what happens in terms of publishing, it feels good to sit down and clear your mind and understand more about what was inside of you.
When I was an opinion columnist, I wrote about social policy issues from a very personal perspective, and I thought hard about how much of other people’s stories and identities to expose. I imagine that's something you do, too. Your son is in this book, for example, and so is your significant other. How do you know how much of other people's stories to expose as you tell your own?
That's a great question. My son got to read the parts he was in and give me thumbs-up or thumbs-down. That was important, because I don't want to tell his story in a way that he doesn't feel reflects his experience.
In terms of the romantic relationship, you know, I call him “Boyfriend” in the book. I never use his name, and I don't give away a lot of detail. What's interesting is he starts off as a villain, but as I grow, we realize that I had a role in this, too. I think that's more interesting for readers. I was doing a lot of the same things, and I didn't realize it. That humanized both of us. You can't just write about somebody else from a place of anger: You have to find a place of empathy for who they are and why they did what they did.
So the Baldwin Prize was inspired by the life and work of James Baldwin, and you have at least one quote from Baldwin in your book: “Nothing is more desirable than to be released from an affliction. But nothing is more frightening than to be divested of a crutch.” What’s your relationship to Baldwin's work?
I think that Baldwin was one of these people who really wrote honestly and personally about his life. And I'm always drawn to memoir. I'm always drawn to people's real stories. When someone says, “This was my experience, and I'm going to share it with you,” that is so bold.
I'm doing this interview for high school students who are learning how to become better writers. What else do you think they should know?
It’s really important for them to believe in themselves. They’re going to face people who aren't fans of their work. You can't let those voices overpower you. You have a story to tell, and it's important, and someone will respond. Don't give up because you got some negative feedback: Use that to fuel you to improve your writing.
So many times people think—like I thought—“nobody wants to hear this story.” No, we do. We actually want to hear your story. Never think that somebody doesn't want to hear your story. Your story is inherently interesting.
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