Our Diary

Madison Utley speaks to debut author Minelle Mahtani following the publication of her memoir, May It Have A Happy Ending, by Penguin Random House Canada. The two discuss how Minelle gave herself permission to think creatively, what that enabled for her writing, and what she recommends for staving off the post-big-writing-project blues.   

Q: When did creative writing become part of your journey, and how does that coexist with your academic self? 

A: I’ve always been interested in writing, but I didn’t know if I could give myself permission to think creatively. There was a lot of pressure on me to become a doctor or a lawyer–the trope of the immigrant kid. I started writing when I was 11 or 12, just scratching things out in my journal, but I didn’t really mature into that until after my mom died. That’s when I started thinking about the possibilities of the creative voice. I also ran a radio show for a time that was mostly me interviewing authors about their books. That helped me think more critically about the potential and the promise of using one’s voice. The discipline of having to write a script every day also gave me the opportunity to refine and finesse my writing. All of those things worked together to give me the permission to write a book eventually. 

Q: Did you expect that permission to express yourself creatively to culminate in your memoir? Or were you open as to what that bigger project might be?

A: Just after my mom died I got asked by my alma mater, Dalhousie, to come and talk to first year students. When I started preparing for that, it became a talk about all the ways I had experienced failure in my life. That piece seemed to really resonate with people. We don’t talk about failure; it’s often kept private. So I was really curious about the opportunities that come from speaking about vulnerability and failure and loss and grief–things that are taboo subjects. That paper morphed into the memoir. Don’t get me wrong; the memoir took me four years to write. But the genesis was that speech, and giving myself permission to speak publicly about failure. I was also lucky to have many writing angels along the way who offered a lot of support.

Q: Talk to me about the process of editing your manuscript. As far as I understand, you worked with both Stuart and the editor provided through your publishing house on the book?

A: And a few other people too, yes. I applied to almost every single writing program I could get my hands on, in terms of workshops and retreats. I also did so much reading about how to write books that proved really helpful. Bringing Stuart into the process was complete serendipity. I spent a lot of time thinking about the scaffolding of my memoir. When I typed “book architecture” into Google, up came Stuart’s name. My relationship with him was really useful; he taught me a lot about arc and making sure there was propulsion in the story, which is often very difficult when it comes to grief because grief is nonlinear. Also, Stuart is extraordinarily honest in ways that we don’t often get the opportunity to receive. That’s one of his great gifts, and it was very helpful. 

Q: Did you feel a definite sense of having reached completion with the manuscript, or was that a hard call to make?

A: I only knew it was done when my editor told me it was done. I could have worked on it for another year. Sometimes I wish I had–but not really. I knew it was time to let it go. Making that decision takes a certain kind of maturity, and calls for trusting that you’re going to write more after that. You know this is not going to be the end all, be all of your existence. In order to let something more beautiful come into the world, you have to make way. That’s what I meditated on. Plus, I’m already working on my next project. That was the best advice I got. The minute you hand in your manuscript, start working on your next book. 

Q: Did you already have a clear sense of what you wanted your next project to be? Or did you simply launch yourself into the exploration of the possibilities?

A: Yes, I knew what I wanted to do when I finished my memoir. Who knows? Maybe it’ll come to nothing. I’m just going to have fun with it. I really do think you need to launch yourself into your next project as soon as you wrap up your last one. Nobody tells you about the silence between when you submit and the book launch. You just don’t know how your book is going to be received. 

Q: What advice do you have for other writers?

A: I think the thing I wish I had done more is trust my intuition and my instincts. So I’d say: pay attention to what you pay attention to. I think that’s really important. And then that’s what you have to write about. 

Madison Utley speaks to Lois Kelly following the release of her book, Slow Loss: A Memoir of Marriage Undone by Disease, about the emotional and intellectual impact of transitioning from business to personal material, the reader responses she has gotten so far, and what a commitment to the daily practice of writing has brought–and will continue to bring–to her creative life. 

MU: To start, can you walk me through your overall writing journey?

LK: From a young age, I wanted to be a journalist. I started writing for Boston area newspapers when I was 15. I would report on obituaries, weddings, and human interest stories. Those I especially loved because I could ask people questions and learn different things. I loved the concept of writing as exploration like that. Curiosity is really what drives me. 

My business books that I wrote first were an exploration of trends I was seeing, trying to understand: why is that happening?. Then again, much later on, my memoir is me exploring what I was going through and trying to use my journalism skills to document it, with some sense of compassion and curiosity. 

I sort of lost my way with writing for many years. I got into the corporate world and I wrote speeches for CEOs and I did public relations and marketing; I was good at it and it helped me make a living, but that was such unfulfilling writing for me. When I would get an idea about a book, that was so satisfying. Like a meal where you just don’t want to leave the table because everything is so good. Whereas the business writing in the corporate world was like necessary sustenance. It wasn’t feasting.  

MU: Can you talk to me about the differences you’ve felt between business and personal writing, having done so much of both? 

LK: About 14 years ago I wrote a book called Be the Noodle about how to be a compassionate, courageous, crazy good caregiver. It was a sweet, little book that people still love. That was my first personal work. It was somewhat difficult because you’re exposing yourself. To write anything good, you must be vulnerable. That was frightening. I didn’t feel so comfortable with that, yet I knew if I didn’t fully show up, then it wouldn’t be interesting writing. The story would be dull and the character might be unlikable.

Buddhist monk Thích Nhất Hạnh once said, “How you live is your message to the world.” Much of my writing is about being courageous, resilient, and realistically optimistic, even in dark times. That is my message. (But please, no toxic positivity!)

MU: What led you to seek editorial help with your memoir, and what do you feel like was gained from looping Stuart in? 

LK: That wise, experienced, outside perspective is absolutely fundamental for making something as good as it can be. When you’re writing, you get so close to the material you can no longer see. If you want it to be really good, you need a great editor. And to me, if I’m going to do something, I’m going to make it the best it can be. I want it to be a gift to the reader. 

I remember the first thing I said to Stuart: “You need to tell me if this manuscript is something that was good for my own self healing or if there is a book in it. And please be frank with me.” I had been in a writer’s group for four years by that point and I had seen that some things we write are for our own healing or growth and development, and not necessarily something to be shared. I would have been fine if Stuart said it read like a self healing exercise. Through writing it I got to a much better place, so that was fantastic in and of itself. I was just so close to it and there was so much trauma and change and wildness, that Stuart telling me it was a book and helping me go from there was really valuable. 

MU: What kind of reader responses have you gotten thus far?

LK: The memoir has been out for just a few weeks, so it’s early days, but people are saying it’s stunning, it’s heartbreaking, it’s full of love, it’s hopeful, and that the dark humor grounds it. The feedback has been really beautiful. I almost cried when one woman wrote to me: “No one gets what this is really like. This is a gift to the legions of unrecognized caregivers.” It invited us to have a really interesting conversation about ourselves and our suffering and how dealing with this has shaped us. I’m hoping the book invites people to have much more honest conversations with others in their lives–even with their doctors who sometimes are very good clinically but maybe don’t fully understand the emotional impacts of long diseases on patients and their loved ones. 

There are all these people out there who are bettering the world in big, obvious ways–like neurosurgeons–whom I so admire. I hope that with my writing, I better the world in at least a teeny, tiny way. 

MU: I ask this understanding your memoir hasn’t even been out for a month yet, so forgive me, but do you have any idea what’s next for your writing?

LK: I’ve been writing these essays where I’m looking at business things again but writing about them in a fun new way. They’re about what I’ve learned, what I wish I had done better when I was an inexperienced, insecure manager. I don’t know where they’re going, but it’s really fun to write them–and to write them outside of any business style, much more creatively than I’ve done that kind of writing before. Sometimes it’s just fun to write without having any expectations at all and then after a while, you begin to see something to explore in a more disciplined, organized way. Every book I’ve done, that’s how it’s started: Maybe there’s something here, I’m going to let the ideas grow and then we’ll see. 

MU: Do you have any advice you’d like to share with other writers?

LK: The first thing is to write every day. It’s such a fun practice, but it’s also a discipline just like running or yoga. You write if you want to be a writer. I have a group on Zoom and we meet for an hour every day; we start with 10 minutes of meditation and then there’s a prompt if you want, but you can take it or leave it. Writing daily is so satisfying, and I’m becoming a better writer for it. After a while you start to see a pattern, you begin to get these little pearls, and you’re like: “Oh, that’s what’s going on here.” You’re not going to use them all, but you begin to get some great material. It’s habit and routine, yes, but it’s also fun and light and easy versus ugh, I have to sit down and get this done. It’s a safe place to experiment and play. Having a community supporting that is really helpful and holds you accountable too. 

The second thing, and I have to credit Stuart for this, is that I’m not a traditional writer. Some writing in my memoir skews poetic and then some chapters are more traditional prose. The pace of the reading, the energy of it, works for me. I asked Stuart, “Can I do this with a kind of mixed style, outside of what a classic literary memoir is?” Stuart said to me, “You can do anything you want.” It was the greatest advice I got. It built my confidence and it liberated me. And it makes sense too because, when you look at it, the traditional ways of doing anything are being shaken up. There are fundamentals of storytelling, of course, but how you deliver it should be outside of formulas. So as Stuart told me, I’d in turn urge other writers not to be imprisoned by formulas.