In my entire journey as a writer, I have faced the dilemma of a creative mind that is perpetually torn between the urge to express authentically and the need to respect the privacy of those who played a role in the experiences I want to write about. It is a profound and complex struggle that saw me attempting to publish my first book under a pseudonym, to gain anonymity and write without being exposed.
This dilemma, I believe, is shared by many creatives. The tension is worse for writers whose writings draw on deeply personal and often painful memories. In my younger years, I managed this conflict through self-censorship, endless rewrites, creative disguises and the abandonment of entire projects. One such project is a poetry collection that remains forgotten in my drafts, halfway finished, because it reveals a lot, maybe too much, about my traumatic childhood.
I think we will all agree that authentic expression is the lifeblood of a writer’s work. Through honest expression and creative vulnerability, we connect with our audience, offering them a glimpse into our inner world that may be the same as theirs. For me, writing about my childhood and my relationship with my father is a way to process and make sense of those difficult times. The raw truth in the poems that I have managed to write for the project is what gives them power and resonance. However, the very authenticity that makes this work compelling also presents ethical dilemmas. My father’s privacy and our complicated relationship hang in the balance, creating a constant tension between my need to tell my story and the fear of causing harm or backlash. The vocal opinions of relatives do not make it easier.
One argument for maintaining complete genuineness in writing is the belief that art must be fearless to be impactful. Writers who have taken the proverbial bull by the horns include the likes of James Baldwin and Sylvia Plath. Their courageous writings, which lay bare their souls and expose them to everything and anything, have offered solace and understanding to countless readers. They exemplify how personal truth can transcend individual experiences to touch the lives of many. My poetry—and your writing—too, holds the same potential to reach and resonate with others who have faced similar experiences. However, the cost of such honesty can be high. I am personally aware of the fact that revealing intimate details about my father could strain our relationship further and inflict emotional pain, not just on him but on other family members as well. Very recently Mukoma wa Ngugi— himself a poet like me—wrote about the disturbing relationship between his father and his late mother. It created a storm that I doubt has fully settled.
As I said earlier, the fear of causing harm often leads to self-censorship, which I have experienced firsthand. I know several writers who have avoided certain themes just to ensure they do not expose too much in a bid to be true to their experiences. My poetry collection remains in limbo because I cannot bring myself to dilute the truth, yet I am equally unable to risk the potential fallout. Self-censorship is painful, excruciating, debilitating… It feels like a betrayal of self, an abuse of my creative impulse, and self-entrapment in a cycle of doubt and frustration. It is a common predicament for many writers: the desire to tell our stories truthfully versus the ethical responsibility we feel towards those who feature in them.
One potential solution to this dilemma is to anonymize or fictionalise the people and events in our writing. Where the medium of expression permits it, one can find some legroom by changing names, locations, and specific details. This approach allows the preservation of emotional truth without breaching privacy. However, for me, this method feels insufficient. The specifics of my story are so integral to the narrative that altering them would dilute the impact and authenticity of my work. What then is the essence?
Another approach one can take is to seek permission from those who may be affected before publishing sensitive material. This can be daunting, as it requires confronting the very people whose reactions we fear. However, obtaining their consent can provide you with a measure of ethical clarity and alleviate some of the guilt you may be agonising about. Beyond your writing, this approach can potentially lead to healing and reconciliation as it opens a dialogue about the experiences in question. There is, however, also a risk that a healing wound may be reopened by this approach. I am not sure that I will be able to explore this approach, as discussing my critical poetry with my father is an obvious landmine.
A third strategy is to attempt to balance public and private expression. This involves a less constricting form of censorship where you address your experience from a less personal viewpoint, anonymising and/or fictionalising the main characters. For example, I have touched on my father-son situation in all my books. I broke the soil without raising too many eyebrows in my first collection, ‘What Can Words Do?‘ I continued in my other books, and I must admit they were sufficient for the time. Now I want more and the only way to get more is to write for oneself first— in journals or private documents. This can serve as a therapeutic exercise and provide a safe space to process and articulate difficult experiences and engage with our emotions without the pressure of public scrutiny. Later, when we feel ready, we can decide whether and how to share this work with a broader audience. This is what I have done with my collection which I have tentatively titled ‘My Father, Your Father & His Father Too’.
I will conclude by noting that the struggle to balance authentic expression with respect for others’ privacy is an unavoidable and painful aspect of the creative process. Ultimately, this dilemma is one of responsibility: we have freedom of expression as writers, but we must also balance our duty to art and commitment to truth against potential outcomes. Considering strategies such as anonymisation, seeking permission, and balancing public and private expression, can help navigate this dilemma. While they are not ‘silver bullets’ by any means, they can help us honour our truth without causing undue harm, allowing us to continue our artistic journey with integrity and compassion.
For me, the journey of completing my poetry collection is still challenging. But I will get to the destination. I deserve to. As do you. If you need some motivation, here is what American poet Marc Jampole said in a 2021 interview about this subject: “At first it was very uncomfortable to delve into my past. I had to relive the emotional pain of my youth, not once, but many times…. The further I got into the first draft, the harder it became. But once I had the first draft down, I was able to treat the writing as “material” and deal with it as easily as I have always dealt with writing a news release or a television commercial.”
Therefore, whatever you do, just start writing.
Kukogho Iruesiri Samson is a Nigerian writer, communications professional, and publishing entrepreneur. Kukogho has authored five books, including Devil’s Pawn (2020), winner of the 2018 GT Bank Dusty Manuscript Prize. He has received several accolades, both as a writer and a literary administrator. He is @brainypoet on X and Instagram.
