The wonderful site, She Writes, asked for blogs about this topic. So this is what I wrote!
1. That persistence can work--I mean over ten years of writing, rewriting, changing point of view twice and almost giving up. I learned that the book sold on Valentine's Day, while I was at the AWP conference in Chicago--the phone to my ear inside a Kinko's as the wind blew outside. It was heaven, even in the chill.
2. That even though a part of me would have loved to share my finished, published book with my parents when they were alive, that their deaths(at 91 and 93 after good, long lives) gave me a certain freedom. Plus, I didn't want to hurt them. Some of the book might have done that. I now talk to them and feel their protection and love in a more pure way.
3. It's important to be grateful and acknowledge all those who helped you along the way. In my case it was a virtual army of people. I sent lots of thank you emails with my news and when I think of someone I've forgotten, I try and thank them and keep them in the loop.
4. That the book is bigger than my life. I'm hoping it can help people who have family members who have been burned, or had panic attacks or ever been separated from their parents when they were children.
5. That I'm proud of how hard I worked on the language. As a poet the words mean a lot to me. But it might not be perfect and that's okay.
6. That remembering that the book is bigger than just my life will help me talk about it when the old feelings surface.
7. That a whole new life is opening up for me.
8. That I can't quit my teaching job yet—and I can focus on what I love about my job and my students who are big supporters of my writing as well. Talking to them about my process inspires them.
9. That working with an editor is a give and take. I was fortunate to find a wonderful, amazing publishing house—Atlas and Co.
10. That I need to take care of myself during this time--both for myself and my family--like enjoying quiet moments at home or taking a hike to recharge or just sitting on the couch with my precious dog in my lap.
Showing posts with label Writing a memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing a memoir. Show all posts
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
A Memoir is like a quilt
Writing a memoir is like stitching a quilt together. I started with small patches, scenes from the past and the present. A memory of an explosion in Cape Cod. Ice skating on a pond in upstate New York while my parents were in the hospital. A phone call. A black telephone chord on a brown table. Cradled in the warmth of my aunt, uncle and cousins. My sister’s tears. Her asthma. Returning to New York. A family reuniting.
But these were all scraps of memory that took years and years to sew together. I was afraid to go deeper. I woke up scared about remembering. I had dreams of fire. I couldn’t cross bridges. I had a husband and small children. I wanted their memories to be of the zoo, swinging in the park, reading books. But I seemed to tell too much because the telling became obsessive like sanding a table and wanting to get past the old paint and scratches down to the grain. But I learned to balance the past—that memoir—with present joys. The book still was not ready, though. It would take more years to bake and the death of my parents to free the parts of the story that I didn’t want to tell when they were alive.
It was only after working with an editor/friend in Montreal that the book took shape. I made timelines for each character. Everyone has a story from beginning to some sort of end. The stories were separated. The characters were developed—what they liked to eat, what they liked to wear. What flowers might they choose to place on the table. Then the stories were put together, like vanilla and chocolate batter that is swirling together so the swirling is just right. That took a couple of years, to write the sketches, to merge the stories. To go back and forth as life does like on a sea saw. Not one moment but past, present and future like the sun dipping at the same time as the moon rises. Or how all the stars, even the ones light years away are illuminated.
The story was finally told and sold. It started as a patchwork quilt, small patches of remembering.
But these were all scraps of memory that took years and years to sew together. I was afraid to go deeper. I woke up scared about remembering. I had dreams of fire. I couldn’t cross bridges. I had a husband and small children. I wanted their memories to be of the zoo, swinging in the park, reading books. But I seemed to tell too much because the telling became obsessive like sanding a table and wanting to get past the old paint and scratches down to the grain. But I learned to balance the past—that memoir—with present joys. The book still was not ready, though. It would take more years to bake and the death of my parents to free the parts of the story that I didn’t want to tell when they were alive.
It was only after working with an editor/friend in Montreal that the book took shape. I made timelines for each character. Everyone has a story from beginning to some sort of end. The stories were separated. The characters were developed—what they liked to eat, what they liked to wear. What flowers might they choose to place on the table. Then the stories were put together, like vanilla and chocolate batter that is swirling together so the swirling is just right. That took a couple of years, to write the sketches, to merge the stories. To go back and forth as life does like on a sea saw. Not one moment but past, present and future like the sun dipping at the same time as the moon rises. Or how all the stars, even the ones light years away are illuminated.
The story was finally told and sold. It started as a patchwork quilt, small patches of remembering.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
