“Talk about your dead kid. It will get people’s attention, make them relate to you, it’s a compelling story.”

I’m a relatively unknown author promoting a new book from a small publisher in London. The topic of the book, spiritual tools for decision making, isn’t enough of a hook, I’m told. The PR consultant who I paid to advise me gives me some useful advice, but I don’t like this suggestion.

Talk about your dead kid. Because apparently a dead kid is a good hook.

There is a chapter in my book, The Saint and the Drunk, about making decisions in a season of grief in which I discuss the death of my father when I was 19 and the death of my son, when he was 19. I have told the story of my son’s death on multiple stages and in various books and magazines. I’m working on a new book about grief.

I took the PR consultant’s advice, and got press coverage in major publications with dead kid stories and maybe that’s sold some books. The journalists who interviewed me were respectful, kind, and thoughtful. I hope the resulting articles are helpful.

It's not the topic that disturbs me, it’s the hunger for it, the fact that content about my dead kid drives engagement. People click and share and comment more.

It is painful to see pictures of my dead son served up next to advertisements for shoes and beauty products. But I wonder if my discomfort is more than just the pain of remembering, the visceral reaction to seeing his beautiful face. What if I’m uncomfortable because I am participating in a practice that is distorting grief and loss?

When does sharing a story become grief porn?

Grief porn takes a real, complex subject and highlights the drama until it becomes almost unrecognizable. It is meant to titillate, excite, induce that sense of relief that my life may suck but at least I didn’t have to go through that.

Listen for more.

Get full access to The Consigliera Papers at consigliera.substack.com/subscribe