Writing the memoir

If you really want to know who you are, write a memoir. I don’t have too much trouble telling it like it is, hoping telling it how I see it was really how it was. Sure, we each color our own story, elsewise how could we bear it?

Some folks have really terrible tales, with such severe wounding that it’s a wonder they survived any of it, and likely they didn’t survive most of it. Know that every time you meet someone they are holding some part of their lives that smart and sting and sometimes rage with pain. Afford them kindness. Give them space. Practice empathy even without knowing what hurts. They will never thank you. That would mean you know they hurt, when their hurt is what they think they are hiding.

That’s not where I am, or was. But you should know that abandonment is today’s major tragedy. Abandonment is rampant in the world. Because we can. We just walk away and no one says hey look at that bad girl. Boy. We even explain it. Excuse it. Ignore it. Do you know what that does to kids? There are no safe places for the enormous grief. Even when it is deemed the best thing for those kids, and sometimes it truly is, even then the trauma is terrible. Children need two parents. A child’s shaping requires Mommy and Daddy. Even when one of them dies, and my Daddy did, kids only know the bare bones of that pain: he or she is gone and never coming back. And when someone doesn’t die, the pain is the same.

Can you guess, I have some really good friends. They know my story in detail. I admit to their initial fascination, for it is very different from their own. But they over-credit me. Much is hidden by bravado. I appear to be very strong. And sometimes I am. But inside there is a lot of quivering Jell-O.

Those strangers in pain need lots of comforting. They need to know they are not alone even if you never ever know them. Reveal is way too risky, like jumping off the cliff and you have no clue how to fly. Sometimes we are called to fly with them, be their wings, don’t crash on the rocky slopes on the way to the ground. So understand your capacity and your lack of. Tread lightly. Go carefully. Bring a soft light. Be prepared to carry and to catch. People in pain cry. Bite. Scratch. Like a frightened kitty hiding beneath the bed, hissing at the savior. Hold that kitty close if you gain that much trust.

Here is where I am. I spent five years birthing a book. I’m pretty attached to the result. So far, no one wants my baby. But it’s early. I’ll need to send out announcements. Rave about my little creation. Explain why you should want it. Agents are very resistant to new babies. They think up all sorts of reasons why they don’t want your beautiful child.

I sure hope, when this baby gets to market, YOU will want it. Don’t worry; when that time comes I’ll haunt your doorstep. Shout it from the rooftops. Drag those books all over the place, selling out of my car. Stalking Amazon. Doing the dance. Yes, indeed. My Nome de plume should be THE LITTLE RED HEN. heh.

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