Sometimes I can hardly wait to make the trip! Other times I really don't want to go there. Imbedded in the memoir, material living hidden in it's words, I find fragments of myself long forgotten. Memories long dormant whisper up their secrets to overlay the newer truths with which I've labeled them. Dealing with the true story lying restlessly beneath the one I've concocted requires straight-on viewing sometimes through the prism of a quality bourbon.
Writing memoir requires a deep desire to look even if looking through tightly woven fingers, holding one's breath, grinding one's teeth, attempting to not see the thing that must be seen.the peeling back of layers of wrapping to get to the box that holds my truths is not done willy-nilly, not with careless ripping, like at Christmas. with light fingers gently pulling off tightly wrapped leaves laid down over all the decades of my life, I reach the core of that which powers the way I think of life. My life. How I deal with triumph and tragedy. How I feel or refuse joy. How I overcome denial.how I finally discard the fictions that permitted living with pain. And come to welcome the "who" I really am, casting aside my armor, laying down my guns.Coming to terms and finally free to be.
Such a journey, all too often placed on hold,back and forthing across the same worn paths, demands a better plan than wandering. Writing memoir builds it, not allowing rambling, dithering, lying, laziness of words, words which, laid out on the page, the truth, ready or