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The Stories that Haunt Us


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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A New Endeavor & a Writing Prompt

Last month, I facilitated my first writing workshop, one that included an atypical group of writers. Those who sat around the table weren’t budding undergraduates or emerging writers in an MFA program. They weren’t even a group of Moms on the run, searching for tips on finding time to write (my imagined first audience). The people I led in workshop were of an older generation, men and women from a retirement community, who came together simply because they love to write. And, they needed a guide.

I’m a good forty years younger than most of the folks at the table, and on that first day I wondered what I might have to share, really. How I might relate. Sure, I write daily, have a few stories out there, but my stories – and my style – must be so different from theirs.

During our hour together, they read their stories and then we talked about creative fiction versus non. I got all fired up: stood up and started waving my arms and talking too loud. It was a necessary display in some ways, because one person was having trouble hearing. Still, I might have waved my arms regardless.

What I learned, then, is that age nor difference matters. Writing brings people to a common ground and good stories are ones we can relate to, in theme and in character, even if not in exact details.

Once I saw that they were eager to come back, I gave them an assignment for the next time we meet.

And, as something different here (and to keep me on my toes there), I’ll be posting our monthly writing prompt. This assignment is yours, too, if you want it.

The Prompt

Last month, Sarah Baughman wrote a post about moving to a new place, and about nostalgia, and she explained for me, in just a few sentences, why I return again and again to a certain time or place in my past:

I’ve lived on four continents in my adult life, more than I ever thought I’d even see. It has been my good fortune but also my heartache. A character in one of John Cheever’s many strange and wonderful stories says, “When you’re in one place and long to be in another, it isn’t as simple as taking a boat. You don’t really long for another country. You long for something in yourself that you don’t have, or haven’t been able to find.” The statement rung partly true but also puzzled me until today, when I realized that in my case, the things in myself I always look for are, in fact, the pieces of myself which have surprisingly grown and taken hold in all the different places I’ve lived, and which will never leave me.

nostalgiaThink about a time or a memory that you return to again and again. Write about that event/experience/person you left behind. If you’d like to write this as fiction, consider embellishing the story or creating a new character in place of yourself.

If nothing else, go read Sarah’s post.
You can’t help but be inspired.

* Photo credits: kakisky and cohdra on morguefile.com and Zaprittsky on flickr.com

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