writing for self-discovery

“You should write a book!”

Shouldn’t we all? Isn’t every life worthy? Hasn’t each soul passing through existence experienced the joys and sorrows of living in a unique and personal way?

I’ve tried many times, sat down with the crisp blank Word Document staring me in the face. Where to start? Birth? I don’t remember much. Looking at the whole of my life rolled out through the decades is instant overwhelm. But worst of all, boring. I know this story. It isn’t like writing a fiction novel where the twists and turns are as much a surprise to me as they will be to my future reader.

Looking back at failed attempts I understand why it couldn’t happen until now.

1) Too painful.

To write memoir you have to go back into the stories and re-live them, write the experience of what you saw, the smells, tastes, and textures, the feelings. My heart hadn’t healed enough to go there.

2) Too revealing.

To write memoir you have to accept who you are and write from that place. I wasn’t ready to give up the façade of perfection, take responsibility for my own bad decisions and be honest with myself.

3) Too real.

To write memoir you have to be willing to be vulnerable. Your shadow has to appear in all it’s shameful, embarrassing glory. Because after all, isn’t it the shadow side that makes us interesting…and whole? I wasn’t willing to embrace the darkness of my own truth.

4) Too scary.

To write memoir you have to risk everything. We thrive on connection with others. Shame is the fear of disconnection. To reveal ones self, warts and all, is the ultimate risk. We go to great lengths to keep our sunny side up and numb ourselves to the shameful parts. I was numb.

5) Too soon.

To write memoir you have to have a clear perspective of your purpose. “Because someone told me I should,” isn’t a clear perspective. “Because I love myself and I have an amazing story to tell,” is better. But when you come to the place of knowing that your story isn’t yours, that it belongs to others who are still mired in the swampy numbness of their own failings and insecurities and it may show them a way through, that’s when it’s time.

My time is now. As I muck around in the past, digging up old stuff, the events that light up for me aren’t the ones I expected. And as I write them, the way they present themselves on the page isn’t always the way I’ve rehearsed them through the years.  It’s the most amazing phenomenon. What I’m writing is my life told from a place of wholeness and it doesn’t look anything like the dismal sink-hole I imagined it was.

When I hit a particularly bumpy stretch and make myself go back into it, on many occasions laughter bubbles up. The first time it happened I was dumbstruck. “Why am I laughing? This was a nightmare!” In a flash I realize that I’m laughing at myself, at my naiveté, at my relentless stupidity in not wanting to see what was right in front of my face.

Walking the labyrinth

I’m loving this memoir writing process. The words tumble out and bounce back at me like the rerun of a movie I watched a long time ago. But I’m seeing it with older, wiser eyes, and a healed heart. And even though I think I know the ending, I’ve let go of the need to control it. I’m willing to be surprised.