When I sat down to write my book, I thought it would be a simple story of a love affair between a man and a magpie—and that is, indeed, how it begins. But the more I wrote, the more I found myself drawn to one central question: Why does a father fly from his child? I retraced my own father’s flight, went back to the cottage in the woods where we’d briefly lived together, uprooted a knotty tangle of family history; one that some, certainly, would have preferred to remain in the dark. And despite having lived firsthand the rough consequences of another writer’s brutal devotion to the page, I discovered a sturdy sliver of ice in my own heart. Ephron and Mailer and Greene are right. If you want to have a hope of creating a halfway decent book, words must, occasionally, ride roughshod over feelings.
Writing a memoir can feel like writing in blood—blood that isn’t even always your own—and ink like that doesn’t come cheap. One family member exploded when they first read my book. It’s certainly true—as Nunez says—that words can be fists. Words can be punches to the gut. But here are some things that words can also be. Words can be keys. They can be spells. Prayers. Words can perform miracles: knitting together old wounds, or taking flight. Words can be light.
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