Freestyling was a fun one that turned pretty quickly into a memoir post. At this point, I was just interested in hearing everyone else: I’d read Martha Lee Anne’s post and loved it, and I didn’t feel a need to write anything life-changing. That’s one of the best things this class has done for me—it’s taught me that I don’t always have to present something incredible or inspiring; sometimes, my role is to read and synthesize the stories of others. I have the privilege of seeing the beauty of their work and allowing them to claim it as their own, because it is—because I had no part in it, and that’s the way it should be.
And this, from Wilson—“I walk about, thinking I’m loving and saving, but there’s a hell of a lot of angry people in the rear-view.” And I think I’m making a difference and extending a hand to someone who needs it, but there are a lot of indifferent people who would rather not “grab lunch sometime” hanging out in my peripheral vision. My open hand is generally empty. Maybe the good we do is only ever the bad we don’t do—not just when it comes to life, but to writing as well—maybe all the pretty phrases are just the commas we didn’t misplace and the words we didn’t use. Maybe if I’m not fucking it up, I’m doing something worth doing. When it comes to writing, I pretty much have to hope for that—to trust that the content of my memoir is going to say more than the actual words I use. Craft vs. concept and content.
And then Whispers, and her beautiful shocking sad terrifying grace-filled story. I admire her. “I hope you will not worry. God is protecting us still.” Amen, my friend. And how incredible to recognize that, still, and on the heels of that kind of experience—what binds us is our humanity. What makes us want that bond is the same thing that makes us write. I really do believe we are the better for it. 1:22.
“"You know someone loves you by the way they say your name. Your name feels safe in their mouth." ~anonymous small child.” Trillium had this quote in her blog, and I’m going to try to make it work because I’m in love with it.
Again and again I keep reading the same things about memoirs, as if we’re all using the same hand to write them.
“I think reading others memoirs and stories are a way that we as humans connect to each other,” Rebecca says (or was it me?) “I think the most beautiful stories, the most memorable stories, are the ones that we all connect to, and if I could write a memoir that reached into other people’s lives, maybe then, they wouldn’t hiccup.” I say back (or was it Rebecca or Josh?) “I was 13 years old, in the 8th grade, and I peed the bed and I am not ashamed to spread the word,” Ardell says (or was it all of us?), but me and Rebecca nod to ourselves because it’s funny, and because we know the liberation one gets from telling awkward stories.
While reading, I forget where my memoir begins and where yours ends. Sure, we’re different, and have different stories,but somewhere in there, we have the same sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, and for some of us, entire chapters. Maybe that’s what being human is about; we’re different, unique, but still, we have so many things to share that in that process of trying to connect, we find that we don’t have to try, all the tape, and glue, and hooks are there for us to connect with.
Revision: “You know someone loves you by the way they grab hold of your memoir. Your story feels familiar to them, safe.”
Ah, memoir week. I enjoyed reading everyone's stories on here. This was also about the time where we posted our actual papers on Blackboard for everyone to see. And I was absolutely horrified, for obvious reasons.
Then Martha messaged me and gave me encouragement that I am still grateful for. I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it because although I enjoyed writing it, learning it was public was difficult.
Those papers might have been the best things ever for me and my view on my classmates.
Because it was truly an outside looking in view. Those are the best kind, most real.
I remember reading Robert's paper. First I saw that it was something like eleven pages and was like "Nope. Not reading this one." But I ended up sitting there reading all of it. And my whole opinion of Robert changed.
That's what sharing memories should do. Enlighten you. Make people relate and connect. That's why I write, maybe. I want so bad to be understood. And I want to be loved by readers, too. So thanks again Martha. You don't know how much that message meant.
Freestyle becomes memoir. And memoir is selfish, and complex, and full of perspective. My blog is reactionary to Josh's, I get upset that he thinks happiness can come from perspective and that we can gain and lose it all in a second. But this time I express my dissent in a more civilized way. I point out rape, disease, and murder as factors determining our happiness without any place in perspective. And I point out lines in memoirs we have read expressing entire lives leading up to what the author has, and the complexities that cause them to lose it. And then I realize I haven't blogged a memoir of my own, did I do the assignment wrong? Impossible, it's entitled "FREESTYLE". This one's all me. And yet, it’s pretty boring. I miss the prompt, I long for a bigger feeling of disagreement, or concurrence, or something. And to top it all off other people have got these great stories: 1. about being attacked in the night 2. about the summer of 1998 3. about the sound of their names 4. about their own basic existence. I read them over and wonder why I didn't do the same? Why was I concerned about perspective and happiness and reacting appropriately? I realize I was trying too hard to see. I learn from this to remind myself to write blindly, to forget about everything surrounding me and write something that means something, or else, who cares?
Wilson called me out on my response to this blog - and he made me wish I had done it differently. Initially, I said that my stories are mine and I will not share them with those who I do not love and trust (or something to that effect). Now I see how unfair that is, for how will I ever know someone is worth loving and trusting if I don't know them, and how do you get to know someone without sharing stories? So, despite my protective refusal to share at the time, I did learn from this blog. I learned that, even though I don't want to be like Steve Almond and a host of other writers - having people think they know me when they don't because they've read my writing - I do want to share my stories. I want others to read them and cry, laugh, or get angry together with me. And I want them to be inspired to tell their own stories - to others as well as to me. Because if, as we said elsewhere, children learn language to tell the stories already within them, isn't this whole "being human" thing about storytelling?
Memoir was intimidating to me. It’s often my least favorite thing to read – kind of seemed like super emo blog in print. I had determined to not write self-serving introspection but I’m not sure that I escaped it in this blog. I love telling the story I told, and do every chance I get. But I felt like I trivialized the details in the way I presented it and didn’t do grace justice.
Rebecca took me back to our rendezvous with pauses earlier in the semester when she told the story of the surprise engagement plan she overheard at the airport. The brilliance of memoir is exploding a single thought or beam of sunshine or giggle into a cascade of significance. Her summation of memoir, “Isn’t so funny we can remember such important details about people we have never met and how they impact us.” Absolutely. Then again, “Writing a memoir is a selfish thing to do” (Christine). Absolutely.
It seems perfectly schizophrenic that we sweat and bleed to eek out even a hint of universality in our writing to be relatable, to change lives, but often accomplish the same by writing egocentric half-prose. It must be then that value lies not in our selflessness as writers but in our equality. Sometimes writing is a gift to someone – a lesson. But ultimately we don’t bequeath our humanity; we confess it.
I think I have said this about every blog but this one was a really good one too that I very much enjoyed. I may have to say that it became one of my favorites. I also loved the story that we read "Red Sky Morning". It is one of those stories that sticks with me. Even today while at a Christmas party I became Totally mesmerized by a young couple that just seemed so in love. I didn’t speak a word to them but at the same time the love and emotion that I saw they had for each other is something that will stay with me always. I read my original blog to my roommate last night and she too agreed that it was so funny how people we have never spoken to can sometimes impact us the most.
I think the reason that loved about this was the raw honesty that every wrote as they told about past memories of events that had shaped and molded them into the person that they are today. In college classes you never really find out about whom the people are that sit around you every day. You don’t get to hear their stories about the way life has shaped them and made them the person that they are today. I learned that I wasn’t the only one who had my heart broken, that I’m not the only one who misses certain seasons in my life, and I learned to look at every event in my life with new perspectives. This one was one of my favorites because I could relate so much with what was written. Many of the stories reminded me of my memories that were similar. I think that sometimes we share our memories not because we want to share all our secret but because we want to relate to each other. It is our way of reaching out to one another trying to connect and that’s what makes all these memoirs to deliciously wonderful to read.
Am I the only one that think it's weird to respond to each other's writing? Do I even want a response for that? Everyone seems to be responding to each other like they really know every one, but I don't feel that comfortable to really give my opinion about someone's work other than saying it's good, or bad, or engaging or boring. I can't say whether you are being honest, and I can't say whether what you saying is significant, because to me it may not be, and to everyone else it might be. But who am I to say?
I'll sum up what I think about the actual paper assignment instead of this blog, since, again, I was drunk and decided to throw a joke into everyone's honesty. "I'm the kind of guy that laughs at a funeral..."
At the risk of everyone labeling me as the class alcoholic, I have to say when it comes to getting drunk for inspiration, never in my life have I gotten so wasted for an assignment until this one. I struggled so much with the "show, don't tell;" but more importantly, I didn't want to butcher my own memory of the experience. It meant so much to my psyche that I didn't even want to try to put it into words. But I think in doing so, I gained a sense of closure that the girl could never and will never give me. I already know the answer to the dilemma of that night; I don't need to hear her slur her words to tell me otherwise. Dr. PD wrote on my rough draft that I needed to, simply put, "get closure" with this girl. I almost did two weekends ago, but she was stoned and I was too drunk to not cry about it, so it didn't happen. Lately, I've come to the conclusion that she's not worth it and it's better for me to love myself than to love the idea of her caring about me. So, writing about that experience helped me cope a little bit with a lot of feelings I've struggled with lately, mainly that of futility in the face of time running out. But as soon as I saved it on my jump-drive, I sat on my floor and flat out cried for thirty minutes. It's like when Elton John re-wrote "Candle in the Wind" for Princess Diana and then never sang that version again. I don't ever want to look at that paper again or think about it. I wrote it, I somewhat accomplished what I was going for, and now I can move on to other things. Once the candy of my writing melts from around the chocolate center memory of that experience, everything will be sweet again.
Sometimes I think that, “I like to write because I'm just not quite good enough at anything else” (R.R. Irwin), but I’ve recently considered the possibility that I’m not good at anything else because I like to write. And that is not a tragedy. Maybe writing goes to deep. Maybe it’s something that makes other things seem thin and transparent. But it may be the opposite. Perhaps we writers write because our failings have driven us to a necessary self-awareness, an intimacy with the workings of things that calls for expression. Like the “Children who learn to write to pass down the stories that are already in them” (John), we write to find the children within ourselves. (I apologize for the “children within ourselves” line, the wordplay was too overt to deny).
“I am free to be blind, to be inexperienced, to just say whatever” (TeNesha).
I can’t write blindly. I really can’t. I’m all too swamped in analysis and consciousness.
Freestyle
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
When I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy.
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
When I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy.
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
When I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy?
Maybe this is true. We definitely find that writing in this fashion connects us emotionally and intellectually to others who are posting. They teach us things, expose us to ideas, to thoughts that we may not have had. There are certainly things we should not share. Emotions that are only meant to be given out in the bonds of friendship, or marriage, or some other private relationship.
But connecting with the people in this class reminds me that casual relationships can be strong and fulfilling. Sharing ideas with people who we aren't so close with can be more freeing and easier than sharing with people when there's something at stake.
My memoir was just a simple story of one of my favorite moments in my life. I enjoyed that night so much, and I enjoyed the month it reminded me of. I was thankful to be there and thankful that I had an outlet to share with all of you, even if it didn't mean anything to those of you who read it.
I like that I can share with you and not feel burdened by your response, because before this, I always felt like I carried the weight of my audience's response.
When I began brainstorming what memory would be best for a memoir, I found nothing. I thought that nothing seemed interesting enough to share. What personal experiences do I have that are worthy to offer to anyone else? Hmm something serious and emotional? No. Humorous? Yes.
So I talked about something and wrote it in a way that I was able to describe myself using just one experience from my life.
I think this is what this assignment was for. We used our writing skills to use one aspect of our life and really bring out our true colors in that piece. I read about happiness from pets and sadness from lost loved ones. These memoirs really make up each and everyone of us. Obviously we can't tell everything about a person from just a few paragraphs, but its a damn good start.
I really liked this particular post. Memoirs are things that I love to read and love to write. Mainly because I love being told and telling a good story. Because really that's all we have. Stories. That is our existence. Our memory is a story created by our subconscious. Our life is a story being written before our eyes. We developed language (both written and oral) so we could tell our stories to other people.
To me there is no story that is not worth telling, no story that is not worth reading. So I read everyone's memoirs happily. And enjoyed them all. Thank you.
I think this blog really transformed us into the class we are today. We were able to see each other's deepest wounds and deepest desires.
In my opinion, memoirs allow us to skim the surface of our creative writing abilities. Memoirs are hard because they are so real and emotional to us but to get that emotion across to the reader is a different league all of its own, cliche' but appropriate.
I actually had an assignment in another class about writing about an emotional event and trying to get that across to the reader. Thanks for the memoir assignment, it really helped on that other paper.
Dammit, Wilson. I had a perfect record of not being quoted until now. It's kind of an interesting feeling, not being mentioned at all. I felt safe in that I wouldn't be ridiculed, but it's also a sad feeling not being mentioned or noticed.
Then, the fear of finally being quoted. Mentioned. "Well, damn. Wilson was pissed at my post. Here comes the verbal axe." And you know what, he was right. I was lying about not having stories. I have them, I'm just still afraid of them not being any good, like if I tell one of my stories that I'll get to the end and it won't have had any effect on anybody. I guess technically it's not likely, but it's what I'm afraid of. But you wanted a story, so here's one that happened after class on Friday.
Class is over. I've gotten my D.KP-D hug, and am on my way out of class, laughing with somebody else from class. They go another way and I'm alone in the hallway, when suddenly the smile is erased from my face, and my heart stops. There she is. The only person in my life who I will actively run away from. The only person who I have made an extensive effort to avoid at all costs. The only person who has ever broken my heart, standing there, waiting for the elevator. She hasn't seen me, and I do the only thing I can think of; I hide behind the girl walking in front of me. I use her like a blocking lineman as she walks down the hallway, then bolt down the nearest hallway and into the nearest stairwell. I sprint down the stairs, twisting my ankle in my effort to get away, to avoid her even seeing me. I get to my next class, where I'm safe. My heart is pounding and all I can feel is hate and fear. Fear of her seeing me, of bringing up those feelings. And hate; hating her for being the bitch she was, for treating me like a toy for her amusement, but more than that, hating myself for letting anybody have this effect on me. Hating myself for letting that little blonde girl terrify me in the way only nightmares do to children.
There. I hope that makes up for some of the half-assery that I've shoveled into this blog.
P.S. This is Drew. Real name's William, middle name's Andrew, so I go by Drew.
9:30pm tonight locking up the church. It's dark and freezing, and yet my goosebumps come from my steps creaking on the hallway floor towards the section of the church I dread most locking up at night time by myself. Ring of keys carefully clenched in my fist so that the ring clip is over my knuckle like make-shift brass knuckles, I try not to breath as I walk towards the end of the hall where some person has been sneaking in and playing a little helter-skelter by hanging pictures of Jesus from the ceiling with red yarn. (for such a happy place during the day, the church is one of the creepiest places ever at nighttime, and anyone in class has the standing offer to assist one night in locking it up with me).
Thanks for letting me share that memoir from 20 minutes ago. That's what this collaborative effort of free-styling on blogs has led me to though, just letting it hang out and hoping someone's impressed. Ok, so the goal isn't to impress people, the goal is to find a memory that you feel characterizes you, and that you want people to walking away feeling like they know at least one side of you.
Like Josh said above, "even if it didn't mean anything to those of you who read it," my blogs, your blogs, our blogs, give us a way to share what we want to share and in so, teach us that it's ok if not everybody reads it or cares. What matters is that we walk away realizing that we still have something left of ourselves to give away.
"Give it away, give it away, give it away now" -Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Memoirs are amazing, personal and real. I love to read others memoirs and find out those things that you would not usually be told. It is that feeling like when you finally find out where the Christmas presents are hidden and you see them, but you still act surprised. But, when you find that hiding place do you search deeper? Do you touch the gifts and actually experience them or do you just peek in and shut the door as your heart races from the excitement of doing something forbidden and sticking your nose where it did not belong? That is how I see reading someone else’s memoir, it is like they left a door open for you…depending on how personal they wanted to get with you is how open that door actually is. I feel like after this blog I did see a little more of my classmates then what I do see on a daily basis and it was nice, but I can’t say I gave that opportunity to them. “It is not my deeds that I write down; it is myself, my essence.”-Montaigne. This quote really stuck out to me because it is me, but backwards. When I think back on some personal writing I have done it is full of what I think sounds good to others, with just a hint of my personal life. I speak of the things I have been through, but it is so hard for me to say what that has done for me or how it has shaped me. I do not want people to miss out on my actual essence, just because I only opened the door a crack for them. What does that really say about me? Not enough.
So my original post was pretty lame. I missed the mark completely. We weren’t supposed to write about the memory in class, we were supposed to write about memoirs. I didn’t want to be the rotten egg and I ended up looking like a complete idiot being the first one to post, go figure. Thanks for not calling me out on it, guys.
“I was born on Valentine’s day, 1988. I was named Martha Lee Anne after my Grannie. I grew up in Monroeville, Alabama with two older brothers, and a mom and dad who loved each other. I grew up going to church. I grew up eating friend chicken, and cornbread, and pink eye purple hull peas. I grew up wondering what super power I would have in middle school. I had my heart broken, like everyone else growing up, and not necessarily because of a boy. I grew up wanting to be a writer. I grew up. The End” (Martha Lee Anne). And this is when I fell in love with Martha. So eloquent. If I would have done the assignment correctly, I hope it would have looked something like Martha’s. Probably not, but it’s nice to hope. And then the hiccups. How do you come up with this? You are amazing.
Memoirs. By reading your posts I learned effective ways to write them and what they mean to each of you. “There is beauty to your story because it’s yours. Not all of my life needs to be about me… and that’s kind of a relief, ‘cause ya’ll have a lot more to teach me than I could hope to learn on my own” (Josie). I thank God for ya’ll and what ya’ll have taught me, more than you even know.
"Now I would give anything to go back to those days – no worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie. I learned so much during that time without even knowing I was learning. I learnt through living. And it was only after writing about those memories, after sitting and articulating those lessons that I started to realize how much those experiences had taught me."
Me, too Christine. I remember when I was young (lol I feel old now), and I couldn't wait to grow up. Now that I'm here, I wish I was young again. It is funny how we never truly realize what we have until we no longer have it, like a heating system or not having to worry about this month's rent...or exams. Going off with Aly's post, "If I could go back, I would have done things differently." I want to say, don't wish it! You are who you are because of what you have done and what you have been through. As much as I am tempted to make such a wish, it never quite comes out. Because I am happy the way I am--demented, ignorant, and an English major.
I really like the whole exercise of the memoirs because they gave us a chance to really share a piece of with the class. The paper assignment associated with this blog was very easy for me. I tried in another writing class to write about the death of my friend and it wasn't the same. I couldn't tell what happen and how I felt the same as I did with this particular time. I guess it was the fact that I read someone else’s memoir and talking about it in class gave me some insight on how to write put it on paper. I must admit that I was a little nervous about others reading it because it was the first time I could actually put it on paper, but there were great response so I was ok in the end.
By far the best responses, I thought. I learned so much about people from the stories they decided to share and the way they shared them. To me, the telling of stories is so much more personal and intimate than philosophical musings about existence and self. Life is a string of stories, and they build us into persons. So for this reason (and a million others) I love stories and people who tell stories.
I liked this blog, not because of my final product, but because of the memories that it made me conjure up. It was so much fun being able to remember the details of those days growing up, on reflecting how they made me who I am, and how they continue to make me into who I will become. I think that humanness makes certain rites of passage mandatory. Hence the high level of importance based on people’s firsts: love, death of a family member. I think that’s why I loved reading these posts.
Earlier this semester, we read an article that said something to this effect: “I write the next sentence to find truth. To find meaning.” For me, memoir writing is similar. I sometimes wonder if my memories are truth, or if in the warped recesses of my mind the twists and turns of time have made these memory nuggets into something I can live with. Something I don’t mind sharing. All the while, the truth lies behind the memory, hidden and I don’t even know it. I write memoir to find that hidden, ugly, dwarf of ruth. I write these memories to find significance and meaning in them. To figure out why I care, why I cherish the memories I do. Why I can’t get the last time I saw my grandpa lying motionless in the hospital bed out of the back of my memory’s eye. Why the look on my mom’s face the first time I cussed in front of her will always be in with me when I want to let an expletive fly. It’s me. And that’s scary.
"As people we are desperate to connect our threads to others’; we want someone to pull at our seams just so we have an excuse for our own unraveling. I love that. I think it’s beautiful." Josie
Yeah, it has totally been a little bit of an emotional orgy. I guess that is why so perfectly referred to coming to class the morning after the blog as "a walk of shame". I keep coming back to it...why am I throwing my guts against the wall again? Why did I ever stop throwing my guts against the wall...? We need to tell our stories. I've learned to do it in so many ways now. Whether it's truly speaking my mind, or just telling a funny story about how I never believed in Santa Clause. I wish that I could experience so much more. I want to see and feel so much more than I already have. Thank goodness stories let us do that.
Freestyling was a fun one that turned pretty quickly into a memoir post. At this point, I was just interested in hearing everyone else: I’d read Martha Lee Anne’s post and loved it, and I didn’t feel a need to write anything life-changing. That’s one of the best things this class has done for me—it’s taught me that I don’t always have to present something incredible or inspiring; sometimes, my role is to read and synthesize the stories of others. I have the privilege of seeing the beauty of their work and allowing them to claim it as their own, because it is—because I had no part in it, and that’s the way it should be.
ReplyDeleteAnd this, from Wilson—“I walk about, thinking I’m loving and saving, but there’s a hell of a lot of angry people in the rear-view.” And I think I’m making a difference and extending a hand to someone who needs it, but there are a lot of indifferent people who would rather not “grab lunch sometime” hanging out in my peripheral vision. My open hand is generally empty. Maybe the good we do is only ever the bad we don’t do—not just when it comes to life, but to writing as well—maybe all the pretty phrases are just the commas we didn’t misplace and the words we didn’t use. Maybe if I’m not fucking it up, I’m doing something worth doing. When it comes to writing, I pretty much have to hope for that—to trust that the content of my memoir is going to say more than the actual words I use. Craft vs. concept and content.
And then Whispers, and her beautiful shocking sad terrifying grace-filled story. I admire her. “I hope you will not worry. God is protecting us still.” Amen, my friend. And how incredible to recognize that, still, and on the heels of that kind of experience—what binds us is our humanity. What makes us want that bond is the same thing that makes us write. I really do believe we are the better for it. 1:22.
“"You know someone loves you by the way they say your name. Your name feels safe in their mouth." ~anonymous small child.” Trillium had this quote in her blog, and I’m going to try to make it work because I’m in love with it.
ReplyDeleteAgain and again I keep reading the same things about memoirs, as if we’re all using the same hand to write them.
“I think reading others memoirs and stories are a way that we as humans connect to each other,” Rebecca says (or was it me?)
“I think the most beautiful stories, the most memorable stories, are the ones that we all connect to, and if I could write a memoir that reached into other people’s lives, maybe then, they wouldn’t hiccup.” I say back (or was it Rebecca or Josh?)
“I was 13 years old, in the 8th grade, and I peed the bed and I am not ashamed to spread the word,” Ardell says (or was it all of us?), but me and Rebecca nod to ourselves because it’s funny, and because we know the liberation one gets from telling awkward stories.
While reading, I forget where my memoir begins and where yours ends. Sure, we’re different, and have different stories,but somewhere in there, we have the same sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, and for some of us, entire chapters. Maybe that’s what being human is about; we’re different, unique, but still, we have so many things to share that in that process of trying to connect, we find that we don’t have to try, all the tape, and glue, and hooks are there for us to connect with.
Revision: “You know someone loves you by the way they grab hold of your memoir. Your story feels familiar to them, safe.”
Ah, memoir week. I enjoyed reading everyone's stories on here. This was also about the time where we posted our actual papers on Blackboard for everyone to see. And I was absolutely horrified, for obvious reasons.
ReplyDeleteThen Martha messaged me and gave me encouragement that I am still grateful for. I'm glad that you enjoyed reading it because although I enjoyed writing it, learning it was public was difficult.
Those papers might have been the best things ever for me and my view on my classmates.
Because it was truly an outside looking in view. Those are the best kind, most real.
I remember reading Robert's paper. First I saw that it was something like eleven pages and was like "Nope. Not reading this one." But I ended up sitting there reading all of it. And my whole opinion of Robert changed.
That's what sharing memories should do. Enlighten you. Make people relate and connect. That's why I write, maybe. I want so bad to be understood. And I want to be loved by readers, too. So thanks again Martha. You don't know how much that message meant.
Freestyle becomes memoir. And memoir is selfish, and complex, and full of perspective. My blog is reactionary to Josh's, I get upset that he thinks happiness can come from perspective and that we can gain and lose it all in a second. But this time I express my dissent in a more civilized way. I point out rape, disease, and murder as factors determining our happiness without any place in perspective. And I point out lines in memoirs we have read expressing entire lives leading up to what the author has, and the complexities that cause them to lose it. And then I realize I haven't blogged a memoir of my own, did I do the assignment wrong? Impossible, it's entitled "FREESTYLE". This one's all me. And yet, it’s pretty boring. I miss the prompt, I long for a bigger feeling of disagreement, or concurrence, or something. And to top it all off other people have got these great stories:
ReplyDelete1. about being attacked in the night
2. about the summer of 1998
3. about the sound of their names
4. about their own basic existence.
I read them over and wonder why I didn't do the same? Why was I concerned about perspective and happiness and reacting appropriately? I realize I was trying too hard to see. I learn from this to remind myself to write blindly, to forget about everything surrounding me and write something that means something, or else, who cares?
Wilson called me out on my response to this blog - and he made me wish I had done it differently. Initially, I said that my stories are mine and I will not share them with those who I do not love and trust (or something to that effect). Now I see how unfair that is, for how will I ever know someone is worth loving and trusting if I don't know them, and how do you get to know someone without sharing stories? So, despite my protective refusal to share at the time, I did learn from this blog. I learned that, even though I don't want to be like Steve Almond and a host of other writers - having people think they know me when they don't because they've read my writing - I do want to share my stories. I want others to read them and cry, laugh, or get angry together with me. And I want them to be inspired to tell their own stories - to others as well as to me. Because if, as we said elsewhere, children learn language to tell the stories already within them, isn't this whole "being human" thing about storytelling?
ReplyDeleteMemoir was intimidating to me. It’s often my least favorite thing to read – kind of seemed like super emo blog in print. I had determined to not write self-serving introspection but I’m not sure that I escaped it in this blog. I love telling the story I told, and do every chance I get. But I felt like I trivialized the details in the way I presented it and didn’t do grace justice.
ReplyDeleteRebecca took me back to our rendezvous with pauses earlier in the semester when she told the story of the surprise engagement plan she overheard at the airport. The brilliance of memoir is exploding a single thought or beam of sunshine or giggle into a cascade of significance. Her summation of memoir, “Isn’t so funny we can remember such important details about people we have never met and how they impact us.” Absolutely. Then again, “Writing a memoir is a selfish thing to do” (Christine). Absolutely.
It seems perfectly schizophrenic that we sweat and bleed to eek out even a hint of universality in our writing to be relatable, to change lives, but often accomplish the same by writing egocentric half-prose. It must be then that value lies not in our selflessness as writers but in our equality. Sometimes writing is a gift to someone – a lesson. But ultimately we don’t bequeath our humanity; we confess it.
I think I have said this about every blog but this one was a really good one too that I very much enjoyed. I may have to say that it became one of my favorites. I also loved the story that we read "Red Sky Morning". It is one of those stories that sticks with me. Even today while at a Christmas party I became Totally mesmerized by a young couple that just seemed so in love. I didn’t speak a word to them but at the same time the love and emotion that I saw they had for each other is something that will stay with me always. I read my original blog to my roommate last night and she too agreed that it was so funny how people we have never spoken to can sometimes impact us the most.
ReplyDeleteI think the reason that loved about this was the raw honesty that every wrote as they told about past memories of events that had shaped and molded them into the person that they are today. In college classes you never really find out about whom the people are that sit around you every day. You don’t get to hear their stories about the way life has shaped them and made them the person that they are today. I learned that I wasn’t the only one who had my heart broken, that I’m not the only one who misses certain seasons in my life, and I learned to look at every event in my life with new perspectives. This one was one of my favorites because I could relate so much with what was written. Many of the stories reminded me of my memories that were similar. I think that sometimes we share our memories not because we want to share all our secret but because we want to relate to each other. It is our way of reaching out to one another trying to connect and that’s what makes all these memoirs to deliciously wonderful to read.
Am I the only one that think it's weird to respond to each other's writing? Do I even want a response for that? Everyone seems to be responding to each other like they really know every one, but I don't feel that comfortable to really give my opinion about someone's work other than saying it's good, or bad, or engaging or boring. I can't say whether you are being honest, and I can't say whether what you saying is significant, because to me it may not be, and to everyone else it might be. But who am I to say?
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ReplyDeleteI'll sum up what I think about the actual paper assignment instead of this blog, since, again, I was drunk and decided to throw a joke into everyone's honesty. "I'm the kind of guy that laughs at a funeral..."
ReplyDeleteAt the risk of everyone labeling me as the class alcoholic, I have to say when it comes to getting drunk for inspiration, never in my life have I gotten so wasted for an assignment until this one. I struggled so much with the "show, don't tell;" but more importantly, I didn't want to butcher my own memory of the experience. It meant so much to my psyche that I didn't even want to try to put it into words. But I think in doing so, I gained a sense of closure that the girl could never and will never give me. I already know the answer to the dilemma of that night; I don't need to hear her slur her words to tell me otherwise.
Dr. PD wrote on my rough draft that I needed to, simply put, "get closure" with this girl. I almost did two weekends ago, but she was stoned and I was too drunk to not cry about it, so it didn't happen. Lately, I've come to the conclusion that she's not worth it and it's better for me to love myself than to love the idea of her caring about me.
So, writing about that experience helped me cope a little bit with a lot of feelings I've struggled with lately, mainly that of futility in the face of time running out. But as soon as I saved it on my jump-drive, I sat on my floor and flat out cried for thirty minutes. It's like when Elton John re-wrote "Candle in the Wind" for Princess Diana and then never sang that version again. I don't ever want to look at that paper again or think about it. I wrote it, I somewhat accomplished what I was going for, and now I can move on to other things. Once the candy of my writing melts from around the chocolate center memory of that experience, everything will be sweet again.
Sometimes I think that, “I like to write because I'm just not quite good enough at anything else” (R.R. Irwin), but I’ve recently considered the possibility that I’m not good at anything else because I like to write. And that is not a tragedy. Maybe writing goes to deep. Maybe it’s something that makes other things seem thin and transparent. But it may be the opposite. Perhaps we writers write because our failings have driven us to a necessary self-awareness, an intimacy with the workings of things that calls for expression. Like the “Children who learn to write to pass down the stories that are already in them” (John), we write to find the children within ourselves. (I apologize for the “children within ourselves” line, the wordplay was too overt to deny).
ReplyDelete“I am free to be blind, to be inexperienced, to just say whatever” (TeNesha).
I can’t write blindly. I really can’t. I’m all too swamped in analysis and consciousness.
Freestyle
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
When I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy.
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
ReplyDelete“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
When I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy.
“No worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie” (Christine). At some point I will write something and I’ll want this something to be suggest nostalgia, but do so while also glowing, nostalgia in its loveable form—with a hue of ambient lights around it. When I want to write something that does these things I’ll cheat. I won’t ask Christine’s permission, I won’t credit her with the genius, but I will say “gathering freckles on our noses until sunset”.
ReplyDelete“Damn, I got nothin'. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't have any good stories, or at least not any that are worth telling. All of my memories are either entirely too private to tell, or too mundane to bear. Getting drunk couldn't even get anything good out of me. Was worth a shot, though.” (William)
ReplyDeleteWhen I first read this post it pissed me off. We’ve talked a lot about the value and ability that everyone has, and how we ourselves are enriched by glances inside of those who were once strangers, and then there’s That Guy who won’t say shit. He starts off with some lie about not having any stories? Really?
But then
I realized that there’s bravery in his protection of what is his. It’s true that it can be difficult to share, but isn’t the opposite far more painful? And who says that one is better than the other? It seems like common knowledge that sharing is better than keeping, but in the instance of self, of memories and emotions, one seems no more benevolent than the other. I like what William did. I like that he said “all my memories are too private to tell”. Obviously I want to know the private stuff, and of course the thing about his life being “mundane” is bullshit, but the decision to keep the private private muddles with my brain—and seems right in some ways…
I wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy
I'm going to bounce off of Wilson's last post:
ReplyDeleteI wonder if the intimacy that we’ve so eagerly sought has been a sort of emotional orgy?
Maybe this is true. We definitely find that writing in this fashion connects us emotionally and intellectually to others who are posting. They teach us things, expose us to ideas, to thoughts that we may not have had. There are certainly things we should not share. Emotions that are only meant to be given out in the bonds of friendship, or marriage, or some other private relationship.
But connecting with the people in this class reminds me that casual relationships can be strong and fulfilling. Sharing ideas with people who we aren't so close with can be more freeing and easier than sharing with people when there's something at stake.
My memoir was just a simple story of one of my favorite moments in my life. I enjoyed that night so much, and I enjoyed the month it reminded me of. I was thankful to be there and thankful that I had an outlet to share with all of you, even if it didn't mean anything to those of you who read it.
I like that I can share with you and not feel burdened by your response, because before this, I always felt like I carried the weight of my audience's response.
When I began brainstorming what memory would be best for a memoir, I found nothing. I thought that nothing seemed interesting enough to share. What personal experiences do I have that are worthy to offer to anyone else? Hmm something serious and emotional? No. Humorous? Yes.
ReplyDeleteSo I talked about something and wrote it in a way that I was able to describe myself using just one experience from my life.
I think this is what this assignment was for. We used our writing skills to use one aspect of our life and really bring out our true colors in that piece. I read about happiness from pets and sadness from lost loved ones. These memoirs really make up each and everyone of us. Obviously we can't tell everything about a person from just a few paragraphs, but its a damn good start.
I really liked this particular post. Memoirs are things that I love to read and love to write. Mainly because I love being told and telling a good story. Because really that's all we have. Stories. That is our existence. Our memory is a story created by our subconscious. Our life is a story being written before our eyes. We developed language (both written and oral) so we could tell our stories to other people.
ReplyDeleteTo me there is no story that is not worth telling, no story that is not worth reading. So I read everyone's memoirs happily. And enjoyed them all. Thank you.
I think this blog really transformed us into the class we are today. We were able to see each other's deepest wounds and deepest desires.
ReplyDeleteIn my opinion, memoirs allow us to skim the surface of our creative writing abilities. Memoirs are hard because they are so real and emotional to us but to get that emotion across to the reader is a different league all of its own, cliche' but appropriate.
I actually had an assignment in another class about writing about an emotional event and trying to get that across to the reader. Thanks for the memoir assignment, it really helped on that other paper.
Dammit, Wilson. I had a perfect record of not being quoted until now. It's kind of an interesting feeling, not being mentioned at all. I felt safe in that I wouldn't be ridiculed, but it's also a sad feeling not being mentioned or noticed.
ReplyDeleteThen, the fear of finally being quoted. Mentioned. "Well, damn. Wilson was pissed at my post. Here comes the verbal axe." And you know what, he was right. I was lying about not having stories. I have them, I'm just still afraid of them not being any good, like if I tell one of my stories that I'll get to the end and it won't have had any effect on anybody. I guess technically it's not likely, but it's what I'm afraid of. But you wanted a story, so here's one that happened after class on Friday.
Class is over. I've gotten my D.KP-D hug, and am on my way out of class, laughing with somebody else from class. They go another way and I'm alone in the hallway, when suddenly the smile is erased from my face, and my heart stops.
There she is. The only person in my life who I will actively run away from. The only person who I have made an extensive effort to avoid at all costs. The only person who has ever broken my heart, standing there, waiting for the elevator.
She hasn't seen me, and I do the only thing I can think of; I hide behind the girl walking in front of me. I use her like a blocking lineman as she walks down the hallway, then bolt down the nearest hallway and into the nearest stairwell. I sprint down the stairs, twisting my ankle in my effort to get away, to avoid her even seeing me. I get to my next class, where I'm safe. My heart is pounding and all I can feel is hate and fear. Fear of her seeing me, of bringing up those feelings. And hate; hating her for being the bitch she was, for treating me like a toy for her amusement, but more than that, hating myself for letting anybody have this effect on me. Hating myself for letting that little blonde girl terrify me in the way only nightmares do to children.
There. I hope that makes up for some of the half-assery that I've shoveled into this blog.
P.S. This is Drew. Real name's William, middle name's Andrew, so I go by Drew.
Freestyle memoir to explain my late posting:
ReplyDelete9:30pm tonight locking up the church. It's dark and freezing, and yet my goosebumps come from my steps creaking on the hallway floor towards the section of the church I dread most locking up at night time by myself. Ring of keys carefully clenched in my fist so that the ring clip is over my knuckle like make-shift brass knuckles, I try not to breath as I walk towards the end of the hall where some person has been sneaking in and playing a little helter-skelter by hanging pictures of Jesus from the ceiling with red yarn. (for such a happy place during the day, the church is one of the creepiest places ever at nighttime, and anyone in class has the standing offer to assist one night in locking it up with me).
Thanks for letting me share that memoir from 20 minutes ago. That's what this collaborative effort of free-styling on blogs has led me to though, just letting it hang out and hoping someone's impressed. Ok, so the goal isn't to impress people, the goal is to find a memory that you feel characterizes you, and that you want people to walking away feeling like they know at least one side of you.
Like Josh said above, "even if it didn't mean anything to those of you who read it," my blogs, your blogs, our blogs, give us a way to share what we want to share and in so, teach us that it's ok if not everybody reads it or cares. What matters is that we walk away realizing that we still have something left of ourselves to give away.
"Give it away, give it away, give it away now" -Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Memoirs are amazing, personal and real. I love to read others memoirs and find out those things that you would not usually be told. It is that feeling like when you finally find out where the Christmas presents are hidden and you see them, but you still act surprised. But, when you find that hiding place do you search deeper? Do you touch the gifts and actually experience them or do you just peek in and shut the door as your heart races from the excitement of doing something forbidden and sticking your nose where it did not belong? That is how I see reading someone else’s memoir, it is like they left a door open for you…depending on how personal they wanted to get with you is how open that door actually is. I feel like after this blog I did see a little more of my classmates then what I do see on a daily basis and it was nice, but I can’t say I gave that opportunity to them.
ReplyDelete“It is not my deeds that I write down; it is myself, my essence.”-Montaigne. This quote really stuck out to me because it is me, but backwards. When I think back on some personal writing I have done it is full of what I think sounds good to others, with just a hint of my personal life. I speak of the things I have been through, but it is so hard for me to say what that has done for me or how it has shaped me. I do not want people to miss out on my actual essence, just because I only opened the door a crack for them. What does that really say about me? Not enough.
So my original post was pretty lame. I missed the mark completely. We weren’t supposed to write about the memory in class, we were supposed to write about memoirs. I didn’t want to be the rotten egg and I ended up looking like a complete idiot being the first one to post, go figure. Thanks for not calling me out on it, guys.
ReplyDelete“I was born on Valentine’s day, 1988. I was named Martha Lee Anne after my Grannie. I grew up in Monroeville, Alabama with two older brothers, and a mom and dad who loved each other. I grew up going to church. I grew up eating friend chicken, and cornbread, and pink eye purple hull peas. I grew up wondering what super power I would have in middle school. I had my heart broken, like everyone else growing up, and not necessarily because of a boy. I grew up wanting to be a writer. I grew up. The End” (Martha Lee Anne). And this is when I fell in love with Martha. So eloquent. If I would have done the assignment correctly, I hope it would have looked something like Martha’s. Probably not, but it’s nice to hope. And then the hiccups. How do you come up with this? You are amazing.
Memoirs. By reading your posts I learned effective ways to write them and what they mean to each of you. “There is beauty to your story because it’s yours. Not all of my life needs to be about me… and that’s kind of a relief, ‘cause ya’ll have a lot more to teach me than I could hope to learn on my own” (Josie). I thank God for ya’ll and what ya’ll have taught me, more than you even know.
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ReplyDelete"Now I would give anything to go back to those days – no worries, just roaming the hills and gathering freckles on our noses until the sun set, when we would come in to a home-cooked meal and chocolate pie. I learned so much during that time without even knowing I was learning. I learnt through living. And it was only after writing about those memories, after sitting and articulating those lessons that I started to realize how much those experiences had taught me."
ReplyDeleteMe, too Christine. I remember when I was young (lol I feel old now), and I couldn't wait to grow up. Now that I'm here, I wish I was young again. It is funny how we never truly realize what we have until we no longer have it, like a heating system or not having to worry about this month's rent...or exams. Going off with Aly's post, "If I could go back, I would have done things differently." I want to say, don't wish it! You are who you are because of what you have done and what you have been through. As much as I am tempted to make such a wish, it never quite comes out. Because I am happy the way I am--demented, ignorant, and an English major.
I really like the whole exercise of the memoirs because they gave us a chance to really share a piece of with the class. The paper assignment associated with this blog was very easy for me. I tried in another writing class to write about the death of my friend and it wasn't the same. I couldn't tell what happen and how I felt the same as I did with this particular time. I guess it was the fact that I read someone else’s memoir and talking about it in class gave me some insight on how to write put it on paper. I must admit that I was a little nervous about others reading it because it was the first time I could actually put it on paper, but there were great response so I was ok in the end.
ReplyDeleteBy far the best responses, I thought. I learned so much about people from the stories they decided to share and the way they shared them. To me, the telling of stories is so much more personal and intimate than philosophical musings about existence and self. Life is a string of stories, and they build us into persons. So for this reason (and a million others) I love stories and people who tell stories.
ReplyDeleteI liked this blog, not because of my final product, but because of the memories that it made me conjure up. It was so much fun being able to remember the details of those days growing up, on reflecting how they made me who I am, and how they continue to make me into who I will become. I think that humanness makes certain rites of passage mandatory. Hence the high level of importance based on people’s firsts: love, death of a family member. I think that’s why I loved reading these posts.
Earlier this semester, we read an article that said something to this effect: “I write the next sentence to find truth. To find meaning.” For me, memoir writing is similar. I sometimes wonder if my memories are truth, or if in the warped recesses of my mind the twists and turns of time have made these memory nuggets into something I can live with. Something I don’t mind sharing. All the while, the truth lies behind the memory, hidden and I don’t even know it. I write memoir to find that hidden, ugly, dwarf of ruth. I write these memories to find significance and meaning in them. To figure out why I care, why I cherish the memories I do. Why I can’t get the last time I saw my grandpa lying motionless in the hospital bed out of the back of my memory’s eye. Why the look on my mom’s face the first time I cussed in front of her will always be in with me when I want to let an expletive fly. It’s me. And that’s scary.
"As people we are desperate to connect our threads to others’; we want someone to pull at our seams just so we have an excuse for our own unraveling. I love that. I think it’s beautiful." Josie
ReplyDeleteYeah, it has totally been a little bit of an emotional orgy. I guess that is why so perfectly referred to coming to class the morning after the blog as "a walk of shame".
I keep coming back to it...why am I throwing my guts against the wall again? Why did I ever stop throwing my guts against the wall...?
We need to tell our stories. I've learned to do it in so many ways now. Whether it's truly speaking my mind, or just telling a funny story about how I never believed in Santa Clause.
I wish that I could experience so much more. I want to see and feel so much more than I already have. Thank goodness stories let us do that.