Ugh.
It's awful. That is, it's awful to write. It's awful to remember. It's awful to Memoir.
For a long time, I didn't think I should write it. I didn't think I had a story to tell. And, if I did have a story, it is surely a horror story, and, who cares. Everybody has a rough life. Right?
Surely, no one can take away anything from my story, it won't teach anyone anything. It wont evoke feelings, or entice anyone to read it. Who cares, I'm nobody.
I'm nobody, with nothing to say. Nothing extraordinary I have overcome. I'm not a hero. I didn't turn any tragedies into anything amazing. I just came out of it, quietly with no fanfare.
But, as I began to share parts of my story with 'normal' people on the 'outside', once I traveled beyond the comfort zone of commiserating with my brother and sister; I learned that people were actually intrigued by my story.
They wanted to know more.
They wanted to know how I turned out so nicely, in spite of all that trauma.
So, my story began to morph from a tragic reality into a story. I've hired a coach to guide me through the logistics of compiling my story. She is there to help me put it all together; build it. Make sense of it all.
Oh, if anyone could just make sense of it all.
I have pages of material. Pages of things that really happened. I didn't have to create them, I didn't dream them or fictionalize them. This week I sent about forty pages to my coach. I waited anxiously for her feedback, her direction. I waited for her to make sense of it all.
While I plugged away at still more pages, I was overcome with a flood of emotion. I suppose that's going to happen when you dig through the emotional shards of your past. Sooner or later, it will start to sting. Again.
I called my mom.
I don't know why.
I didn't want to upset her. I didn't want to tell her where I had just gone, in my head. I didn't want to tell her what I had just written. She doesn't need to know. She already knows. But, I needed her voice. Thirty years later, I needed her.
"What are you doing today?" she asked.
"I'm just writing. That's all I have on my agenda today. Just writing. And I worked out at the Studio-but now, I'm writing."
I thought I might tell her that the writing is hard for me at times. Sometimes, it breaks my heart to look back at what I just wrote, and not choke down tears. Not have a panic attack. I think she already knew that. She knows that I'm scared when I write these things...
We talked about my sister, my brother and my kids. We talked about the wildfires, marriage.
How fitting.
The next day, my coach sent back the responses to my documents. Forty pages of my darkest secrets and most nagging insecurities and fears, critiqued in the margin by a stranger.
"Wow! Very powerful scene." "This is horrible, I am really getting a sense of the narrator's conflict and struggle." "I'm overcome, you have done a great job bringing me in to the narrator's place, I can feel and hear everything, this is great work."
This is a powerful scene. This is great work. This is horrible. I can feel everything...
A powerful scene? I think that's all wonderful feedback. Great critique.
But, there was some shock to seeing someone critique, "My God..." about my story. In a way that expressed; 'I can't believe it. I want to look away. How could anyone go through this?' And it's about my real life.
And then it occurred to me. It is real. It was real. To me. It happened, in my real life. I didn't make this, this isn't work that I creatively fabricated to make an impression, or to move someone to unimaginable emotion. This happened. All I have done by writing it down, is simply document what happened.
Is there talent in that? Is there anything commendable in that? Is documenting the worst things that ever happened to you, praise worthy or vulnerable to a good critique? Is it possible to have a 'voice' about something that once took your voice away?
Seems odd.
Maybe this is all part of the next scene.
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