Self Editing

I've been thinking lately about how often we edit ourselves. I don't mean stopping before we blurt out some potentially hurtful comment, or even the process of consciously phrasing or presenting things in ways that won't hurt the feelings of those we care about. What I'm talking about is how often we feel compelled to hide our thoughts, our questions, our doubts, or our musings because we are afraid of what people will think of us, how often we can't simply be real.

It makes me sad. And frustrated.

Happy Anniversary!

Today is the first anniversary of Pointed Meanderings. I can't believe I've been blogging for one whole year now. I began PM on July 14, 2008, and I remember worrying that I wouldn't have enough to say to keep it going, and here I am, beginning year #2.

I thought that, in honor of my completing one year of blogging, I'd re-run the first post. I've come a long way, baby. (OK. I know that allusion reveals my age.)

Here goes:

Just a glimpse

Last year, I took a class in Writing Creative Nonfiction at Ole Miss. One of our first assignments was to write a memoir; one limited in scope, of course, but covering an event of obvious significance in our lives.

When it comes to writing, I'm not usually a procrastinator. Maybe that comes from being a non-traditional undergrad student who was too afraid that if she put off writing a paper until the day before it was due, one or all of her children would wake up with projectile vomiting and uncontrollable diahhrea, or maybe I just realized that my brain works better if I allow myself time to let ideas take root and grow. Either way, I was always the student who started writing the day after the paper was assigned. (You can probably already tell I have control issues.)

I've written many critical analysis papers, even some fiction and poetry. But the thought of putting my life on paper for others to see left me reluctant even to turn on my laptop, much less to begin trying to find words and shape sentences that would lay myself bare to a classroom full of critics and a demanding professor. Then finally, after producing what I thought was a no-holds barred expose', the most often-repeated response to my memoir was, "You left out what we most want to know!"

This is not a new problem for me. I've started multiple diaries and journals only to either abandon them because the introspection required was too painful (you have to be honest with yourself when you are your only audience) or because I was afraid that someone would find my words and actually read them. Yet, all my life the words that others were brave enough to write have given me great joy. I have no illustions that my words here will illuminate anyone's life or bring joy to the multitudes. I simply want to gain the courage to speak, to reveal myself, but I must admit, at first it will probably be only in small glimpses. That's enough for me now.

Oh, yes--tomorrow's the day!

Telling Your Story

Quite possibly, there is no more popular genre of creative writing right now than the memoir. Memoirs are, I believe, difficult to write. To do it well, a writer must be willing to tell the truth about herself, to reveal limitations and failings as well as strengths and accomplishments, to expose thoughts and actions that we are usually reluctant to reveal, to disclose lapses of judgment, questions of faith, discontent in relationships.

Memoirs are difficult, too, because they require us to interpret ourselves. Although we may attempt to be objective, no one can tell her life story without putting a spin on it, slanting it in some way according to her beliefs about herself, others, and the world around her. We even “interpret” our stories by choosing which events and people we will include and which we’ll exclude, or by how we “remember” dialogue.

Additionally, the author of a memoir must be willing to risk angering, alienating, and/or hurting others. Because no one’s an island, writing a memoir necessitates the telling of stories not our own, at least where they interconnect with ours, and the author’s representation or interpretation of these people and events might not align with the self-concepts or ideals of the people who inhabit and intersect the author’s life story. Sometimes a memoir deals with a change in worldview, and those who continue to adhere to the belief systems left behind are often offended by the author’s analysis, disavowal, and conclusions.

Much of the difficulty of memoirs lies in the fact that we usually choose to write about events that have strong emotional resonance with us. Writing a memoir provides a cathartic experience as the author remembers and is forced to analyze the tensions and obstacles of her life, how they affected her, changed her, and how she has overcome or maybe even just survived. Then she must decide how to present all this to her intended audience to the best effect. The author cannot play it safe. Without conflict, there is no story; surviving conflict in its various forms is what makes a memoir interesting and worthy. But the author must also be real. The reader must believe her, identify with her in some way, and care about her. Why else would a reader give up hours of his life to read about hers?

So, if memoir-writing can be so difficult and even painful, why would a serious writer choose to suffer through the process? I believe it is because a true writer realizes that with her gift also comes responsibility, a responsibility to think about life deeply and to share the insights she gleans with others. Some do it in their poetry, some in their fiction, but in these genres the authors can always hide behind a persona or their characters. Some authors produce essays, yet here authors can choose to remain at a professional distance. But those who lay themselves bare in a memoir must feel that the story they have to tell is so necessary for the world to hear that it is worth the personal risk involved. I’m grateful for their courage.

Just a glimpse

Last year, I took a class in Writing Creative Nonfiction at Ole Miss. One of our first assignments was to write a memoir, one limited in scope, of course, but covering an event of obvious significance in our lives.

When it comes to writing, I'm not usually a procrastinator. Maybe that comes from being a non-traditional undergrad student who was too afraid that if she put off writing a paper until the day before it was due, one or all of her children would wake up with projectile vomiting and uncontrollable diahhrea, or maybe I just realized that my brain works better if I allow myself time to let ideas take root and grow. Either way, I was always the student who started writing the day after the paper was assigned. (You can probably already tell I have control issues.)

I've written many critical analysis papers, even some fiction and poetry. But the thought of putting my life on paper for others to see left me reluctant even to turn on my laptop, much less to begin trying to find words and shape sentences that would lay myself bare to a classroom full of critics and a demanding professor. Then finally, after producing what I thought was a no-holds barred expose', the most often-repeated response to my memoir was, "You left out what we most want to know!"

This is not a new problem for me. I've started multiple diaries and journals only to either abandon them because the introspection required was too painful (you have to be honest with yourself when you are your only audience) or because I was afraid that someone would find my words and actually read them. Yet, all my life the words that others were brave enough to write have given me great joy. I have no illustions that my words here will illuminate anyone's life or bring joy to the multitudes. I simply want to gain the courage to speak, to reveal myself, but I must admit, at first it will probably be only in small glimpses. That's enough for me now.