Coraline signs her book for the Viking — The Hammock and the Hummingbirds, practical guide
Hummingbird, the icon of the practical guides of The Hammock and the Hummingbirds

Do I have the right to tell my story if it involves someone else?

Your version belongs to you

His story is his. What you lived through is yours.

The keyTell what you lived through, not what he is. That’s where the line is.

“I can reveal my truth without ruining his career.”

Chapter 45 — A Matter of Conscience

When it happens to you

You want to tell it — to a friend, to your family, in a book. And you stop, because your story is also his. So you say nothing, and you carry it on your own for another year.

Why silence isn’t generosity

Keeping quiet to protect someone is the first reflex we learn, often as children, and it ends up being the only option we can see. But it doesn’t protect many people: it removes you from your own story, and it leaves the other person to decide alone what happened.

Rule

You can tell your truth without destroying anyone. It isn’t silence or scandal.

How to sort out what belongs to you, in 4 steps

  1. Draw 2 columns. On the left, what you lived through, felt, decided. On the right, what’s his: his past, his diagnoses, his secrets, what you were told in confidence. The left column is yours. The right one isn’t.
  2. Change what identifies, keep what’s true. First names, places, jobs, dates. What you felt stays intact — it’s the only thing that matters to your reader.
  3. Ask yourself what you want to achieve. To be understood, or to make him pay? Both are human, but only one of them gets published.
  4. Get it read by someone who doesn’t know anyone involved. If they guess who it is, you haven’t changed enough.

⚠ There’s a legal limit, not just a moral one

Changing the names isn’t always enough: if the details make someone identifiable, the protection is an illusion. For a text meant for publication, this guide is no substitute for legal advice — it helps you know what you want to say, not assess a risk.

What it changes for you

You escape the choice between “keep quiet or blow everything up”. Sorting into 2 columns shows you that there’s a huge amount left to say once you’ve removed what isn’t yours — and that this was exactly the part you wanted to say.

How to practise

Do the 2 columns on one specific episode, not your whole story. One episode, 10 minutes. You’ll see straight away which side is fuller.

Remember

Keeping quiet to protect someone isn’t tact. It’s just another way of disappearing.

You may be wondering

And what if he recognises himself anyway?

He will, nearly always. That’s not the question: the question is whether a reader who doesn’t know him can identify him.

I’m scared of how he’ll react.

That fear is legitimate and it deserves to be looked at separately. Write down exactly what you’re afraid of — specific fears can be dealt with, vague fears paralyse.

Should I warn him?

Nobody can answer that for you. But note this: warning him helps you feel honest, it almost never gets you his agreement.

Watch the hummingbirds

Watching the hummingbirds means changing your point of view.
Seeing things from every angle.
Accepting every part of ourselves. And of other people.
And laughing about it.

A hummingbird has every colour. So do we. Our shadows and our light.
You take one step to the side: green turns pink. Then gold.
Nothing has moved, except you.

What a practical guide is for

Trying out a tool.
Changing your point of view.
Laughing at something that weighed on you this morning.

What it isn’t

It isn’t therapy.
It isn’t a diagnosis.
It isn’t a courtroom: nobody’s looking for a culprit.
It isn’t a rulebook for good behaviour. You do what you like.

What it’s for

Accepting that we’re human. And fallible.
Our shadows. Our light.
Taking the drama out, to melt the resistance.
Not judging ourselves. Not judging others.
Laughing about it. It works better, and it’s more fun.

Nobody gets judged here. Least of all you.
We don’t know anything you don’t. We just wrote some tools.

Where these guides come from

Nobody made them up. They came out of a novel, chapter by chapter — in the order I learnt them. Not in logical order: in the order life threw them at me.

What you get, end to end:
Not getting stuck in the middle.
Not having to prove your worth.
Understanding the other person without carrying what’s theirs.
Spotting what keeps repeating.
Setting the limit, and holding it.
Naming the manoeuvre, which is enough to defuse it.
Getting out when the judges are also the accusers.
Listening to the body, which answers before we do.
Sorting out what we keep.
And finally: choosing where we’re heading.

I only saw the logic afterwards, reading it back. That’s why it holds: nobody drew it up in advance.

If something feels too big for you, see a professional. A guide is a tool, not a doctor.