Thursday, October 20, 2016
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
A few weeks ago, I picked up Dany Laferriere's memoir of the Haiti earthquake in 2010, Tout Bouge Autour de Moi (The World Turns Around Me). It's an amazing book, full of powerful, palpable, personal description. At one point, a nephew, also named Dany, insists he not write about the earthquake - that the elder Dany's Haiti is done, over writing about, and this is his Haiti, his topic. Elder Dany points out there are as many ways to write an experience as there are experiences - endless.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
For a long time, the word memoir only existed in the plural.
Picture it: a rich Lord sits around his estate after a long life of plundering and looting, and decides it is time to write his memoirs. He wants to tell all the tales of his life, from being a young lad who aced cricket to marauding the barbarians to his retirement and marriage to a much younger woman.
This is what most of us picture (or some version therein; famous stars, former presidents, you name it) when we hear the word "memoir." But that is a whole other kettle of fish from what memoir is.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Recently, I've been involved in learning a technique to help relieve PTSD. The project is focused around helping vets and their families, but the fact is, the organization also knows plenty of people have PTSD from non-explicit war circumstances: rape, abuse when growing up, even event-specific PTSD from things like 911.
I've also had some conversations with therapists who insist we cannot work on memoir until we have cleared the triggers around our PTSD. The fact is, as of now, I have yet to see anything, included the technique I am learning and offering, to clear those memories entirely. I've pointed to this before in this blog, here. But also, I am skeptical that waiting until we have reached some state of clarity is useful. There are exceptions.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
There's no hotter topic in memoir than love.
To look at someone's sexual history up close (from trite 365 day dating projects, to heartfelt analyses of former lovers) is something a lot of us seem to be craving.
To reveal love in the context of marriage or divorce is also big (Eat, Pray, Love).
But in her book In the Body of the World, Eve Ensler breaks open all our previous concepts of love and bodies, sex and sexism. She slashes together her own bouts with cancer alongside rape in Congo with incredible eloquence. She has been there, owns her privilege, never lets her memoir be only her story of love, or sex, or rape, or loss. An incredible blend of the personal and political.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
The following is a spontaneous Haibun (she didn't know this form existed, combining prose and haiku) by a student, following our most recent Read and Write where we shared and discussed Alice Walker's The Temple of My Familiar.
As maddening as it can be to have to write and rewrite our way through old personal stories (if memoir) or characters' life events (if fiction), the fact is, most of writing is re-writing, and most of re-writing is simply understanding. If memoir, simply understanding what we believed without realizing we believed it - or could believe differently - this whole time.
The Key The Old One Gave Me -
I wish there had been a key, but I had to open the door myself by writing about him. By writing about him I learned what I did not know before. The key was in the writing. The key was hidden for nearly two decades after he’d already died. I had created a story and carried it all my life. I can’t remember when I made that story, but it seemed true enough. I believed it. Only when I began to write did the story fall apart. I could no longer hold my story together. The words of my story floated away, lost their meaning. As I wrote about my father, I discovered him again and wished I had created a different story so long ago. As I wrote about my father, I saw a different man than the one I thought I knew, even though I wrote only what I already knew.
I began to forgive him for all the things he had done to make me hate him. No, I began to forgive myself for hating him. That is hard to do. Because I can’t go back and tell him I’m sorry for hating him. I can’t make it right.
The key to my father is in the words I write about him. I have not yet stepped all the way through the door, but I’m getting closer.
What animal sleeps
Beneath fertile years of earth
Waking in my roots