I've been trying to write an essay about the many memoirs I began, during a period of about ten years, but didn't finish. The essay (as the memoirs) is hard to write, especially as I try to throw out a net and capture the one reason--the very one thing--that held me back.
Memoir is tricky business, most obviously for the self-scrutiny and revelations about other people. All of us live our lives messily, no matter how ordered we may be. There are always times, the worst of ourselves is revealed. To reveal those "worsts" (particulary, others' worsts) for my own sake of publishing a book, has always made me uncomfortable. Yet, I continued with the belief I would write the book, face my discomfort and let the chips fall.
Many writers who don't want to go the "memoir route" write novels or short stories or fictionalized autobiography. They know their boundaries and respect them. I've always stood on the middle line, not letting go of my desire to let it all out, but not letting go--not with one tiny tip of a finger--of my reluctance. And so there are no memoirs and not even an essay about why there are no memoirs (at least as of today).
I'm thinking about all this in a somewhat distanced kind of way. Perhaps it is the distance and perspective that will let me give it up. The writing of the story, that is.
I'm visiting my cousin today, and we were just talking about the point we're at in our lives; both of us are in transitions. She's just become widowed; I'm going to be moving out of my apartment--not sure where. These transitions for us both feel smooth. What that means for me and writing, is that my concerns -- once very centered on family --have changed. And with those concerns being different, the need to write about the past and childhood isn't there.
I can't help thinking of all those pages I've amassed --at least a thousand--only to end up on a flash drive or closet shelf feels a bit empty. Like opening a gorgeous gift-wrapped box and finding nothing inside. I have a feeling though, in time I'm going to discover those pages hold gems. Maybe the start of a new story (fiction, of course!) or the end of a very old one.
Followers
