Memoir Monsters

During weekly writing check-ins, the conversation usually goes, “Yep, been blogging. Going well. Writing in my book? Not yet. The doc is open and ready but no, haven’t got to it.” And as I talk I sink in the quicksand of disappointment and guilt knowing I could have but didn’t.

That is until today. 

Before the house sprang to life, I sat cross-legged on the couch, scouring the vaults of my memory and looking to the past to find words. I visited places I didn’t want to return to, and at times it felt, well, too much. Like pushing to touch your toes when mid-shin is the limit.

I told the story of a guy I once loved who never loved me. And the loss of of a fantasy I’d created and the grief that came when it ended.

Writing a memoir means sitting with the monsters in my mind, one by one. I listen to their concerns like a patient counselor, validate their fears, and get permission to share their story.

When a nerve is hit that makes me want I want to run for safety or bury myself deep in the sand, like the razor clams on on my walk on the beach this morning I don’t.

Because even though it is painful, I also know it’s important.

Breathing life into shame’s suffocating breath, making space for ecstasy’s paced jitters, and calling out denial’s slippery-tongue is freeing.

One thing before I go; I want to plant rhubarb and watch it grow large prehistoric leaves in my garden. I know this has nothing to do with what I’ve been talking about, but what can I say? I’m a little random.



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