On Writing: Memoir Update

I am how many years into writing my memoir? Three? Four? I bet you’re wondering when it will be done. I can’t say. As in, I have no idea.

It sounds tireless, but in these three or four years I have gained more than 130 pages of text. I have participated in conferences, attended workshops, taken numerous classes, and have read everything I can get my hands on, about, or in the form of memoir. It is a drive for understanding.

Because I began in confusion.

I was confused about my anxiety, my worth, my purpose. So I wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

And now people tell me they like my writing which is like putting a soft, fluffy pillow on the hard chair I sit on. It makes it easier to come back to, allows me to stay a bit longer.

This is crucial for memoir. I have found that self-knowledge by introspection sinks deeper than I had originally imagined. Sitting alone, I have burrowed into calcified memories and pried them apart to have a good look at their meaning, usually one that files me under the category of, well, mortal.

In other terms that means horrendously flawed.

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I’ve learned to be objective. The classes didn’t teach me this. The books didn’t teach me this. It’s just a little wrap of kindness I realized was there all along. Sometimes we put it around the shoulders of someone else, and other times we clutch its corners like oncoming death.

Because that’s what the world requires from us.

In the past several years, I have received more than my fair share of kindness after sharing my story. It erupted from a state of vulnerability into a full blown shower of appreciation and gratitude from strangers, friends, classmates, editors, and authors. Because they believe my story matters.

Everyone has a story that matters.

The hours, days, years suddenly don’t mean anything because what I’ve found along the way has impact. It has scoured away my original doubt and confusion and gives me purpose. Wrapped in the beauty of kind words, I’m grounded here. With you.

I am grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Mother’s Day

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I had an appropriate celebration: breakfast in bed (Nutella crêpes, coffee, a banana, a glass of freshly-cut lilacs), gifts, cards, and dinner with the family at a nice restaurant. We ended the day by sporting goofy faces, of course, for a family selfie.

Some days, it is hard to believe I am a mother. Our daughters are teenagers now, more independent than I  was at that age. Sometimes, I feel as if they could live just fine without me, but that isn’t true. They need me for large notions: moodiness and friendship struggles, college plans, identity approval, and character building. (I don’t tolerate diminishment. This is the singular area where I am quick to scold.)

My mother and I shared texts on Mother’s Day, wishing each other a happy day, telling each other I love you. It was an appropriate interaction. Except my mother sent it as a group text. On a text that I wanted for myself, she included my sisters, one of whom is not a mother. My older sister doesn’t know the challenges of motherhood, nor the reason it was inappropriate years ago to set her large purse on top of my daughter who, at three months old, slept in the car seat while we ate lunch. How do you explain worth to someone so ignorant?

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My older sister replied to my mother with gushy flowers and hearts. It reminded me why I am uncomfortable around my birth family—they are, in my opinion, still children, perhaps the same emotional age as my daughters, but probably not quite. With family, as a mother and a daughter, I am eternally stuck in the middle. One family is age-appropriate, the other is not. Navigating the polarity of emotional terrain comes either with a reward or a struggle. Flowers and hearts from children has a different meaning than flowers and hearts from adults.

I know now that mature love makes the difference. Timeliness makes a difference. As a teenager, I wanted my mother to tell me I was smart, worthy, special. I wanted her to love me as much as she loved my sisters. Instead, I felt ignored, insignificant, betrayed. She simply wasn’t emotionally situated to give me the love I needed.

But she tried.

Now, I can articulate my needs. My mother is trying to meet them, really trying. I hope when my daughters are adults that I will continue to try to meet their needs. Being heard, feeling heard, is how a woman feels loved. It is so much larger than hearts and flowers.

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Do you agree? How do you feel loved?

 

 

 

Memoir Review: Love Warrior

Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle Melton is an inside-out version of what it means to be a female who struggles with finding a Self she can live with. At the age of ten, her desire—or as she says, the world’s desire— for female perfection sends her to the bathroom after every meal.

She struggles through high school, sending forth to the world her Respresentative, the illusive persona created by a mind who aims to please society by succumbing to external wishes, leaving her true identity feeling lifeless and numb. In other words, this is a typical  female struggle, one that I, and I assume many other women, can understand. She verifies the intensity of this cultural dogma which won’t change until it is challenged by the Self.

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The author tells her story with blunt truth. Being female has pressures that can drive us into a void. She reveals the layers of these pressures and provides us with a blood and guts portrayal of her journey to empowerment. She sheds her skin within the pages of the book, revealing a compassionate heart who learns to love herself as much as she loves others.

This is a must-read for women in their their 30s and 40s who yearn to reclaim their identity lost to children, spouses, work, family, and everything else spinning on the globe. She inspires the reader to find their grounding, connect, and make choices based on volition instead of obligation. Ironically, the world will thank you for it.

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My Thoughts: A beautiful story written with raw honesty and endless courage

 

 

Girl Song

Crunch of gravel beneath car tires. Cars let go. Like so many people, so many people.

 

Hats with names of bands I never liked. The color orange is everywhere.

I am wild and

Lost.

Don’t you hear the music?

 

Heavy hearted honeysuckle.

Oh to be her.

Or her.

Daddy, I’m right here.


Alone.

Downstairs. Damn basement. Kindest friend I could find.

Or a rooftop.

 

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Lake at midnight. Northern Lights. A man I don’t know asks if I’m a Size 2.

Effervescent pink in a glass bottle.

 

Skin. My damn skin.

Camels. With filters this time.

 

Escape. Escape. Escape.

 

Nice girls don’t frown.

 

Can’t you see the music?

Except you let go. Like so many people, so many people.

 

 

Words: On Trump, but Mostly My Dad

Politics are not my thing, but a little nagging voice inspired me to write about Trump’s disparaging comments about women. Saturday night, with my laptop on my lap and a glass of wine (from France, of course), I sat down and let my fingers type their way through the messiness to find meaning in the words.

What Trump said out loud wasn’t shocking to me. Nor had I placed him on a pedestal high enough to induce feverish anger. To me, the news was as blasé as hot dogs for dinner.

But I was unhinged about something. The words poured out Helter Skelter crazy with no sensibility to them. The slant finally began to drift toward my father.

Ah yes, my father.

He had been in town last week. Knowledge of his proximity had rendered me into a weak-kneed, vulnerable scaredy cat. My heart raced at the first phone call. I did not answer.

My dad, father to three girls, was known for the opposite of exquisite praise. Fed up with bickering, he would say, “Good God I wish I had boys. One punch and it’s over.” Then he’d shove a triple decker of Saltines with cheese in his mouth.

His method of parenting: insult. He swallowed food. I swallowed anger. As I grew, the words inside me built from Shut up to I hate you! Of course, I never said any of these out loud. Well, maybe I did. Yes, I did. But nothing answered the eternal burn of his influence: What’s wrong with me?CircleRocks

As it is, I love my father. I recognize the gap left by unmet needs that made him violent and explosive, drunk and unpredictable. Still, in his presence I waver between the woman who deserves respect and the daughter who yearns to make her father proud.

I have no say in the latter. I never did. Growing up, my sisters and I were present and vulnerable to his needs—the needs we should never have had to shore up with our innocence. His words diced us into shards just as a fist punches. The pain wasn’t visible, but the scars will last a lifetime.

My father’s words speak of the culture that raised him. He had no say over it. It is forgivable.

But I couldn’t summon the strength to answer the phone the second time he called. I was afraid he would avoid the conversation I need with him. I was afraid I would cave in to his needs and avoid it too. My love for my father is courageous and raw, wild and stray. I no longer want to feed it, but I can let it run.

I know this hurts him. People are wild, we hurt each other. But we can stop hurting with words.

Words make all the difference.