Beyond The Handmaid's Tale: 4 Surprising Truths from Margaret Atwood's New Memoir

Margaret Atwood’s name is synonymous with some of the most powerful and prophetic literature of our time, most notably The Handmaid's Tale, a chilling vision that has become a cultural touchstone. But who is the person behind these iconic works? An unstoppable force in literature, Atwood has penned an astonishing 17 novels, 11 non-fiction books, nine collections of short stories, and 17 volumes of poetry, alongside graphic novels and children's books. What experiences forged such a keen observer of power, survival, and society? In her latest memoir, Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts—a project dedicated to her late partner, Graeme Gibson—Atwood dissects her own mythology, revealing a life as complex and compelling as any of her novels. This article explores four of the most impactful revelations from within its pages.

There Are Two Margaret Atwoods (And They Share a Closet)

A core theme of Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts is Atwood’s exploration of her two distinct yet intertwined personas: the person who lives and the person who writes. She draws a comparison to Robert Louis Stevenson’s Jekyll and Hyde to illustrate this duality. One self is the public figure who attends book signings and experiences the day-to-day march of time. The other is the creative self, the one that crafts stories and is absent during a Q&A session. As Atwood explains, these two beings may share memories, experiences, and even closets, but they operate on different planes of existence.

This separation of the living self from the writing self is a profound reflection on the psychic cost and division of a creative life. Atwood captures this symbiotic dance with a powerful observation:

I move through time and when I write time moves through me.

This insight moves beyond simple relatability to interrogate the very nature of authorship. Does the writing self exist to protect the living self from the chaos of the world, or does it drain the life lived for its own artistic ends? Atwood suggests a constant, necessary tension between the two, offering a candid look at the compartmentalization required to create worlds while still living in this one.

Her Dystopian Vision Was Forged in the Canadian Wilderness

While many associate Atwood’s work with urban or political landscapes, the memoir reveals her worldview was shaped by a far more rugged environment. As the daughter of an entomologist, Atwood spent her childhood in a nomadic existence, living in “bush cabins without electricity, water, or phones” in the Canadian wilderness. Far from a gentle communion with nature, this was a practical education in the unforgiving laws of survival—a life spent “hunting insects, gathering snakes, brewing poisons.”

This experience, the book emphasizes, is "the part most people miss" when analyzing her work. It directly fueled the survivalist narratives and the stark "Prussian warnings about authoritarianism" that define novels like The Handmaid's Tale. Her chilling dystopias, it turns out, are rooted not in abstract theory but in a profound, visceral understanding of what it takes to endure when systems collapse. This early connection to the natural world also gave her a unique perspective on time and history. As she puts it:

every time you look at a piece of a rock you're looking at a time machine.

Her Most Famous Stories Had Radically Different Beginnings

Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts demystifies the creative process, showing that literary masterpieces are rarely born fully formed. Atwood reveals the organic and often surprising origins of her most famous novels, highlighting that writing is a process of discovery, serendipity, and relentless revision. Two key examples stand out:

• The Handmaid's Tale, begun in West Berlin in 1984—a city starkly defined by authoritarian division—originally opened with a group hanging scene that she later decided to reposition as the story took shape.
• Alias Grace, her celebrated historical novel, was sparked by something as mundane as a note found on hotel stationery.

This revelation repositions the author not as a remote oracle receiving flawless visions, but as a tireless craftsperson. It demonstrates that literary greatness is forged through revision and serendipity as much as initial inspiration, showing that even for a writer of Atwood's stature, the creative journey is one of trial, error, and radical reshaping.

She Offers Blunt, "Witchy" Wisdom on Life and Power

The memoir showcases Atwood’s unfiltered and provocative side, but with a surprising motive. She describes a "sinister alter ego" compelling her to "spill some beans," not to cultivate an enigmatic persona, but to actively "shatter her witchy image" with radical honesty. The book is peppered with stark observations and unflinching life lessons, including warnings that governments claiming to help can ultimately cause harm.

This candor is delivered with the sharp, dark wit that has become her trademark. One of her most memorable and blunt pieces of advice perfectly captures her pragmatic worldview:

public humiliations pass unless you vomit or die.

This unfiltered honesty is not an embrace of her public mystique; it is an act of rebellion against it. By offering such blunt, almost brutal wisdom, Atwood dismantles the myth of the literary priestess. She insists on being seen not as an otherworldly oracle, but as a clear-eyed, essential commentator on the strange and often brutal mechanics of society and power.

Conclusion: The Unbottled Life

Margaret Atwood’s Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts is far more than a simple recounting of events; it is a profound interrogation of the fraught relationship between life and art. The memoir reveals the inherent tensions that define its author: the wilderness survivor behind the literary icon, the blunt pragmatist behind the creator of intricate worlds, and the public figure actively working to deconstruct her own legend. It shows how a life of keen observation and rugged resilience produced some of the most important stories of our age. After seeing the artist dismantle her own mythos, we are left to wonder: How does knowing the architect change our perception of the architecture?

Get the copy here