Writers ask a lot of their readers: commitments of time and energy, focused attention, suspension of disbelief, and their likes, ratings, and word-of-mouth recommendations. But the most significant request we make of our readers is their trust. We ask them to trust that, from the first sentence to the last, we will guide, intrigue, entertain, challenge, and/or educate. Their trust in our stories comes with no guarantee of reward, and they risk feeling profound sadness, fear, or even anger. When I sit at the keyboard I try to remember that the stakes are high for readers and that their trust must be earned.
While writing my novel, [non]disclosure, I knew that earning and sustaining the trust of my readers was critical and that, given the subject matter, it would be difficult. In [non]disclosure, a young woman comes to terms with the sexual abuse she suffered at the hands of a Roman Catholic priest. Reflecting on her childhood, she says, “Trust was a slippery thing: You might have a grip on it one minute and lose it the next.” Hers is an all-too-common story, one in which trust is betrayed again and again.
I am not a victim, but still it was not easy to write about the trauma of child sexual abuse, and I turned away from my computer frequently. I was writing during the pandemic, so there were few public places to go for respite. I took long walks in the cold, day after day, week after week, and wore through a pair of sneakers. I regrouped, alone. I read about the pitfalls of producing “trauma porn” in all its insidious guises and considered how I might tell a story that centered the victim-survivor. Progress was slow, but eventually the novel took shape, and early readers, including the editor of a major feminist magazine with whom I’ve enjoyed a long working relationship and friendship, weighed in.
When the time came to find a publisher, I was apprehensive about querying. Who would I trust as I sent my manuscript out into the world? I was relatively new to writing fiction, but as a reader I was a fan of independent presses and had a feeling that a Canadian indie would be a good fit for my short work of literary fiction. I accessed a directory from the Association of Canadian Publishers, then took a closer look at what I thought might be suitable presses, reading their websites and scanning their lists, trying to determine which ones would be most sensitive in their treatment of the work. In the end I was pleased to sign with Second Story, an established Toronto-based feminist press, and the editor and I had intense discussions about the best way to frame the most emotionally fraught scenes. From start to finish, [non]disclosure was crafted with intention and reflection, so when the book was released in October 2024, I felt as ready as I could be to engage with readers.
Second Story and I hosted two launch events at independent bookstores, one in the small city I call home, and another in a larger city nearby. In all, about two hundred people attended, and they seemed engaged and inquisitive. I fielded questions about plot and process, including the influence of real-life criminal cases on the novel, and each time I stepped away from the microphone, I felt relieved, celebratory even. I hugged friends, shook hands, signed books.
And I listened.
What I hadn’t prepared for when writing [non]disclosure were the disclosures. Friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike told me stories about their experiences of childhood sexual abuse. Some were abused by clergy, some by other trusted adults: cousins, brothers, uncles, grandfathers, teachers, family friends. Some were victimized as teens, some as younger children, some from as early as they could remember. Abuses at home, at school, at church. Single incidents and abuse that continued for years. Many described their struggles as ongoing and lamented the impact of abuse on their relationships. Emotions ran the gamut: guilt, shame, self-blame, resentment, anger, sorrow. Some shared unimaginably horrific details. Some pulled me aside and whispered just two borrowed words: Me too.
In the weeks and months after my novel’s release, I continued to receive disclosures. Some people sent long e-mails, others spoke with me at book signings. Many nights I lay awake for hours thinking about the people who had shared their stories. It seemed I had unleashed a powerful impetus to disclose, and I wondered if I had responded appropriately. Upon reflection our exchanges seemed blurry around the edges. Had I held the speaker’s gaze? Did I say the right thing at the right time? Should I have offered thanks? Sympathy? Affirmation? All of the above? I was often so overwhelmed in the moment that I’m not sure exactly what I said or did. Sometimes I felt literally pulled into an exchange, like when a woman gripped my arms and wept as she told me about the abuse of her siblings by their parish priest. At other times the bitterness and anger of victims was so raw that it was all I could do not to take a step backward.
That complete strangers were moved to tell me about the violence inflicted upon their bodies was disconcerting, to say the least. I am a private person—not shy but introverted. I have many acquaintances but only a few close friends, and I rarely feel the need to share my deepest secrets. Why, I wondered, were these readers disclosing to me, and how could I respond in a way that honored the person and the moment? I carried these questions, and they weighed heavily on me.
I am fortunate to have a few friends and former colleagues who work as researchers and counselors in the gender-based violence sector, and I turned to them for advice. They reassured me that there is no “right” response and that listening is key. They reminded me that the number of people who told me their stories was not entirely surprising given the horrible statistics about child sexual abuse, including that one in ten children in Canada will experience such abuse, according to a report released by Statistics Canada in 2022. And, most helpfully, they suggested that I acquaint myself with victim services agencies in my area so that, when necessary, I could suggest those sources of support to readers.
It took time, but I eventually came to see that I had been given what I’d wanted all along: my readers’ trust. In Truth Is the Arrow, Mercy Is the Bow: A DIY Manual for the Construction of Stories (Zando, 2024), Steve Almond writes that “our job as a writer is to love and to mourn, to tell the unbearable story so that others might feel less alone in theirs.” When I read this I realized I had been so taken aback by the intensity of my readers’ responses, I had forgotten that ours is more than a momentary exchange; rather, it is an act of solidarity, of standing together in understanding and empathy.
In her essay “On the Partnership Between Reader and Writer,” Hilary Leichtner writes: “If the reader is asked to carry a part of the book, they will take it to a place the author has never seen. When a book arrives somewhere emotionally moving, it’s because the reader has helped put it there.” In the case of my readers, their visceral, emotional reactions did not remain contained within the covers of the book; rather, they extended beyond the last page, and their trust in the story was expressed through their disclosures.
Now when I hear victims’ stories, I am reminded of a basic truth of the craft: Stories come from stories. When writing [non]disclosure, I was inspired by criminal cases of abuse by clergy that had been written about by journalists. The fictional story I wrote compelled victims to tell their own stories. Their stories fueled this essay. If you are reading this essay with interest, you are now also part of this story.
If you are a writer whose readers respond to your work with intimate, personal disclosures, this confirms that you have earned their trust. Though it has been surprising and unsettling to receive my readers’ stories of abuse, it turns out that their trust in me is not a burden but a gift.
Renée D. Bondy is a writer and educator from Southwestern Ontario, Canada. Her debut novel, [non]disclosure, was published by Second Story Press in 2024.
Thumbnail credit: Tracy Bonvarlez