My writing partner died before our work began. Here’s what our collaboration taught me about collaboration and craft.
Jen Braaksma reflects on the unexpected partnership that formed when she helped complete the work of a writer who was no longer here to guide it. Through careful listening and deep respect for another voice, she discovered that collaboration can continue, even when one partner can’t speak for themselves.
Collaborative writing is never simple. Ask any pair of co-authors and you’ll hear about wrestling with shared documents, redlined drafts, mismatched schedules, and the delicate art of editing someone else’s sentences without bruising their ego. It’s a lively, and sometimes heated, back-and-forth.
When I was asked to finish the manuscript left behind by a widower’s late wife, Betsy Pauly, I found myself in a very different kind of partnership. Betsy had passed away in 2016, at the age of 58, leaving behind her heartbroken husband Chips, a hole in the hearts of her family and friends. To honor his wife, Chips wanted to publish the manuscript—about Betsy’s experiences as a dedicated animal welfare advocate who could never say no to a stray dog or cat (or dozens!).
The challenge was daunting: How do you honor someone’s creative voice when you can no longer ask what they meant?
Instead of brainstorming sessions or shared Google Docs, completing Betsy’s manuscript required a different toolset: one built on actively listening to the written word. Not casually, but with the kind of attention usually reserved for intimate conversation. I listened for tone, rhythm, and emotional undercurrents. I listened for humor, tenderness, frustration, warmth. I listened for the intention behind Betsy’s words: what she —not I — wanted the reader to understand.
Luckily, Betsy’s voice — boisterous, funny, compassionate — was strong enough to pull me into her world of taking in every stray she encountered, whether cats, dogs, pigeons or even racoons. Through descriptions of bottle-feeding kittens at 2 a.m. and holding animals as they died, her personality radiated through her words, making it possible for me to feel her presence even in her absence. My role became less about writing and more about attuning myself to the essence of what she had left behind.
What I learned reshaped how I see collaboration, and craft.
Collaboration is about empathy and attunement
Even with a partner who is no longer there, collaboration is about empathy. And the heart of collaboration lies not in control, but in attunement: listening not just to the words, but to the intention behind them.
It’s about the dance of learning to co-exist
The real work happens in the relational space between you and your partner. As a conversation — a dance — between two minds, two unique sets of experiences, and ultimately two voices, collaboration reflects the much more sweeping journey of learning how to coexist. My role, I came to understand, wasn’t to fix Betsy’s often chaotic pages. It was to have the conversation, honor her voice, and be a steward, a partner by her side.
Honoring another person’s voice demands deep listening —and humility
For a successful partnership of any kind, listening can’t be passive. It must be done with intention and an open heart. The more closely I tuned in to Betsy’s tone, her pacing, and her emotional intention, the stronger the manuscript became. I chose not to over edit, putting aside my own instinct to improve, refine and upgrade Betsy’s words to honor her authentic voice. Perhaps as we should all do more often for loved ones and friends…
Absence is part of the creative process
Writers face gaps all the time: a character who won’t speak, a theme that won’t clarify, a plot point that refuses to settle. Teams face similar gaps: incomplete data, missing context, unclear expectations. The work isn’t about eliminating absence; it’s about responding to it with empathy, curiosity, and thoughtful interpretation.
You can’t force a structure that doesn’t want to exist.
At one point, I tried to impose a perfectly linear structure on Betsy’s stories. It didn’t work. Nothing aligned. But when I stepped back and let the stories lead, they revealed their own shape — one that honored her personality and perspective. In writing, like in relationships and life, we often try to impose frameworks. Yet often, the most satisfying and enduring outcomes are not what we think.
Finishing Betsy’s manuscript taught me more about partnership and respect for the story’s own intelligence than any co-writing experience I’d had before. And it reminded me why we collaborate at all: to build something no single voice or individual could have created alone.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jen Braaksma is the author of two young adult novels, Evangeline’s Heaven and Amaranth. A former journalist and high school English teacher, Jen is now a book coach who helps writers develop their stories. She lives in Ottawa, Canada, with her husband (soulmates do exist!), two daughters (Best. Kids. Ever.) and her four cats (who know they’re in charge).
Betsy Pauly, originally from Minneapolis, earned her degree in business before taking on the corporate world. She began painting professionally in 1986, then turned to writing in 2010. Over the years, Betsy rescued more than one hundred cats, at least ten dogs, and one blind pigeon. With her husband, Chips, she lived in Dallas, Texas, Carthage, Missouri, and Englewood, Florida, before her death in 2016.
CONNECT WITH JEN BRAAKSMA
Website: https://www.jenbraaksma.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jenbraaksmabookcoach
X: https://x.com/JenBraaksma
BEFRIENDING BETSY
Betsy Pauly died five years before Jen Braaksma knew she had even lived. Betsy was an artist and writer hailing from Minnesota, Texas, Missouri, and Florida. Jen is an author and book coach from Ottawa, Canada. Yet, improbably, Betsy became Jen’s friend.
When Betsy died, she left behind a heartbroken husband, a hole in the hearts of her family and friends, and a half-finished manuscript. To honor his wife, Chips wanted to publish her animal stories—Betsy was a dedicated animal welfare advocate who could never say no to a stray dog or cat (or dozens!).
Turning manuscripts around is Jen’s job. But as she worked, she never expected to form a friendship with the woman on the page. How was that even possible? Readers might feel they “know” an author by their writing, but Jen’s experience went further. She got to see Betsy’s drafts and her process. She got to see Betsy’s mind. And in doing so, she got to know this extraordinary woman. This may be Jen’s journey, but it’s Betsy’s story. A story about dedication, passion, and the connection that comes from sharing your authentic self—even between two people who can never meet.
