In less than a week, I turn 42 years old. Forty two. I don’t mind it, really. I have much for which I can be grateful for and plenty to look forward to this coming year.
There are days, though, when I feel pulled back, when my mind sifts through memories like old recipes, and I become stuck in images of me at twenty-one or my life at twenty-two.
I am swirling through a warm summer in Oklahoma; walking barefoot in the red dirt by the river; taking in a cool night on top of a roof; sitting on the wood floor of that house we rented, playing records we found at the thrift store. There are communal meals – an Eggplant Parmesan dish that took four people and six hours to bake – and quiet bike rides alone, in the early morning hours, to open the bakery where I worked.
My time there ran its course, yet I return, again and again, searching for something. Unable to let go.
Those are the memories that filter their way into stories. They fall clunky and raw onto the page, are taken apart and molded back together again, three or four (or five) times over. The stories wax and wane in how much is revealed, and then, finally – because they are still too much or not enough – they get put into a drawer. Pushed to the way back.
And, those are the stories that refuse to lay dormant.
I have such a piece that keeps bucking its way to the rewrite table. One minute I love the story; the next, I cringe at the thought of anyone reading it. Still, I can’t let it go, can’t stop rewriting. I’ve taken out truths and replaced them with fiction. I’ve changed names and changed them back again. I’ve left out the parts of me that burn.
This story needs a place, whether it’s a permanent station in a notebook no one will find for years to come, or…who knows. I put it through the chopping block yesterday, and I’m giving it one last showing tomorrow, under fresh and experienced eyes at a critique group. After that….
I’ll be honest: I’m scared.
How do you tame the stories that haunt you?
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I have a couple of those, Christi, and they do exactly as you’ve described – they bang about in the rewrite drawer, make a reappearance when names are changed to protect the innocent – and guilty, and facts are distorted into fiction even though there is no one who would know the difference. We write what we know, and as a bunch, we’re probably pretty good collectors of experiences so we write how we know it too. Whether readers would figure out the ‘true’ bits and have an ‘Aha!’ moment is anyone’s guess. I suppose part of me doesn’t want to be on the celebrity sofa in an interview about my best selling novel (Oh, yes I do!) fielding a ‘that was you, wasn’t it?’ question. EL James, anyone?
“EL James, anyone?” …Ha, ha!
I know the lines of fiction and memoir become blurred in so much of our writing, and I guess it’s good to remember that most people won’t even know the difference. I suppose that’s the key, as well: to make the writing so seamless that there’s no question. Thanks for your comment Suzanne!
I believe the stories that “refuse to lay dormant” hold the greatest treasures for a writer, and I think we often over-think and analyze them until we’re slopping around in a pool of doubt–at least that how it was for me.
This is a terrific post, Christi, and you’re a terrific writer. My vote is that you dive into those stories from your past and write like your pants are on fire! What a way to start a birthday. xo
Thanks, Beth. I love how you describe what happens when we over-analyze: that slopping around in self-doubt. That’s exactly it! I’m going to remember what you said, too, about those stories being treasures. Like Florence says, they are the ones that drove me to more writing in the first place.
Christi: Part of the baggage we take with us on this journey is hard to put down. Harder to store. Impossible to unpack. Yet, one small piece at a time, we take them out of the dark, air them out on the line in the bright noonday sun and then like a miracle … we try them on for size and they fit.
Happy Birthday … Don’t give up. The ones that haunt are the ones that brought us to the first step of this journey 🙂
You’re exactly right, Florence: Harder to store. Impossible to unpack. Well said!
Sounds like the makings of a good story that is eager to be told.
Thanks, Darlene. It certainly won’t be ignored 🙂