“Why Do You Have to Do This?” Writing Memoir with an Open Door

Posted by Tele on March 2, 2013 in Reading & Writing | 12 comments

 Novem­ber 2, 2012.

I’m at Sitka’s maritime-themed Monthly Grind to read an essay. This is the first time I’m shar­ing this piece, and I’m afraid. I worry that the tone is overly inti­mate, pre­sump­tu­ous. It doesn’t help that Cen­ten­nial Hall is packed, or that two of my favorite writ­ers are in the audience.

The read­ing goes well, and the audi­ence is kind. After­wards, I stand at the back of the room with my friend Seth. He looks thought­ful. Over the music of the Big Fat Babies, he muses, “I was won­der­ing while you were up there… Why do you feel you have to do this?”

In the midst of that fes­tive room, his quiet words trans­port me back in time, 11 months ear­lier, when some­one else asked me that same question.

*****

Decem­ber 2011.

I’ve decided to send an email to the peo­ple who will be most impacted by the mem­oir I’m writ­ing, telling them what I’m work­ing on and why.

One of my men­tors says this is a bad idea. No one needs to know what I’m writ­ing at this early stage, she says. With no guar­an­tee that it’ll ever see the light of day, there’s no need to get any­one pre­emp­tively upset and risk derail­ing my process with their neg­a­tive reac­tion. As Stephen King advised in On Writ­ing, I should “write with the door closed.”

In my gut, the oppo­site feels true.

If I’m sac­ri­fic­ing time with loved ones to instead favor my computer’s cold gaze, shouldn’t they know why? If I’m ago­niz­ing over every word, isn’t it with the goal that these words will be read by oth­ers? If I’m actu­ally doing this, it’s out of a belief that the story has value, that oth­ers will ben­e­fit from it, that it’s meant to be shared. That I have to share it.

This is not easy. A girl raised on a holy trin­ity of keep­ing quiet (keep a low pro­file, be dis­creet, be polite) makes for a woman grown into a con­flicted mem­oirist. I find com­fort in the belief that lib­er­a­tion lies in own­ing my great­est vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties. If I name all of the ugli­est pieces of me, what do you have left to use against me?

This is mem­oir: intense, unwa­ver­ing truth-telling, where I lay myself bare before you – friend and stranger alike – and trust that story sur­passes shame, that we will both be made stronger, some­how bet­tered, by this exchange.

But none of our expe­ri­ences are ours alone. I can’t do this with­out drag­ging oth­ers into this truth-telling. My story is also theirs – theirs as viewed through my eyes, a skewed, funhouse-mirror ver­sion. The image of “truth,” after all, depends on where you stand. I decide I need to tell them what I’m under­tak­ing, not to ask for per­mis­sion or a bless­ing, but to be hon­est about my inten­tion. I dis­re­gard my mentor’s caution.

I spend days craft­ing the email. Each ver­sion tai­lored to its recip­i­ent, tears stream down my face as I name the fears and respon­si­bil­i­ties in pur­su­ing a dream that requires inten­tional dis­rup­tion in loved ones’ lives. I read them to Joel first, then click “Send,” one after another, four times.

I don’t sleep well that night.

Three responses roll in the next day. They are mis­sives of love, badges of courage, bless­ings of uncon­di­tional sup­port. This time, my tears are of won­der and gratitude.

The fourth response takes place not in the vir­tual ether, but in a kitchen. From my back to my face to the blood in my veins, I don’t remem­ber ever feel­ing this frozen before. We stand ram­rod straight against crowded coun­ters. “Why do you feel you have to ‘tell your story’?” I see trac­ers after the air quotes. This is a bad acid trip, punc­tu­a­tion drip­ping to the hard­wood floor, prison bars hang­ing between us.

I don’t have a good answer. I’ve spent months in writ­ing classes, retreats and read­ings, sur­rounded by believ­ers equally devout. Why do I have to tell my story? Why do I have to breathe? Marooned on oppos­ing sides of the kitchen, we are on oppos­ing con­ti­nents, speak­ing dif­fer­ent lan­guages. Not only do I fum­ble my response to what’s spo­ken, I fail to trans­late the real ques­tion left unsaid. How can I trust you to be kinder, gen­tler, to me on the page, than you have been in life?  

The con­ver­sa­tion dete­ri­o­rates. I don’t cry until I’m in the car, dri­ving to meet Joel. It’s a wet, word­less keen­ing, and I call him from the park­ing lot, unable to get it together enough to go inside. When he answers, he thinks I’ve been in an accident.

My men­tor was right. I don’t write any­thing for the next month.

*****

Fri­day, Feb­ru­ary 22, 2013.

I wake up in a hotel in Asto­ria, Ore­gon. The room feels like a slum­ber party the morn­ing after: Joel curled against me, his sis­ter Ash­ley in the other bed, our buddy Mikey stretched on the floor. We’re all high on the antic­i­pa­tion for the Fisher Poets week­end ahead, but my excite­ment is tainted with anx­i­ety. I’m sched­uled to read at the Wet Dog Café in nine hours. It’s a big, rau­cous bar, noisy, and I don’t know how I’ll con­nect with the audience.

Before we tromp down­stairs for break­fast, I check my email. There’s one new mes­sage. It’s from my agent, a woman who’s devoted a heroic num­ber of hours into revis­ing my mem­oir pro­posal, draft after draft after draft. The sub­ject line reads, “Let’s Go.”

Let’s go means that after 15 months of work, my pro­posal is approved for take-off. As we enjoy Astoria’s fes­tiv­i­ties, a pub­lisher on the other side of the coun­try will scru­ti­nize Hooked: a sea­son of love, sex, and salmon, weigh­ing its worth. Let’s go means that this is sud­denly very real.

Serendip­i­tous tim­ing casts grace over my read­ing. I spend the rest of the week­end chas­ing vet­eran high­lin­ers and new favorites from venue to venue, laugh­ing with some, breath­less with oth­ers. I study the ways they string expe­ri­ence and emo­tion into words first writ­ten then per­formed, each voice so dif­fer­ent from another, yet shar­ing a com­mon note. There is noth­ing easy about stand­ing in the spot­light, micro­phone in hand, yet these are my broth­ers and sis­ters com­pelled by con­vic­tion that the sto­ries mat­ter, dri­ven past pro­pri­ety, beyond the bounds of fear,  by their urgency to share and connect.

As each per­former takes the stage – some with qua­ver­ing voices, some with swag­ger – I feel a kin­ship from across the room. They, like me, have to do this.