It's nearly 3am. I never intended to be that writer that woke up in the middle of the night and chose to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) over the sweet relief of returning to sleep yet here I am. It wasn't so much inspiration that caused me to open my laptop as it was a desire to keep momentum going. Two days ago I hit an unexpected road block; a moment in my story that has invoked deep, confusing feelings. No matter how hard I tried to push past it or write around it, nothing worked. I had to step away. Time hasn't created clarity...yet. But, it has softened the edges enough for me to recognize at 1:30 this morning that I could step back in to the story before the unexpected road block and flesh out some things that may guide my way a little easier. Sure, I could have waited until morning to step back in but I am learning that momentum has a feeling and it is fleeting at times. Ray Bradbury talks about the Muse in his book, Zen and the Art of Writing. Perhaps the feeling of momentum I get is the Muse willing me to step back in to the creative unknown. Perhaps the Muse doesn't only offer inspiration, but also the call to action. Who am I to refuse the call of the Muse?
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I was in 5th grade when I visited the local hot spot with a good friend, and by local hot spot, I mean my local hot spot, and by my local hot spot, I mean... the library. It was my favorite place to go after school. I have always been a book fiend, but it was more than that. I could walk there with friends and have freedom from my parents at a very young age. It was a place where I felt welcome, like I belonged. I could get lost among the bookshelves and feel completely at home. On this particular day I was with a friend I didn't typically spend a whole lot of time with. Her sister came to pick her up and walked with us through the library. I remember looking up at her and not knowing at all what came over me I said, "I wrote all these books." She looked at me like the awkward, odd girl I was and indulged me saying, "which books?" "All of them. I wrote them all." I responded. In my brain all I kept thinking was, "shut up! what are you doing? You sound like a fool. Obviously she knows you're lying." but I couldn't stop myself, I even elaborated, "I wrote all the ones down this aisle, and this aisle," on and on I went. I spent 40+ years denying what I was attempting to express that day. I am a writer. I have always wanted to be a writer yet the first time I actually allowed myself to write was during My Year of Hugs when I began blogging at 36 years old. Do I wish I had written more sooner? Sure. Do I wish I had experimented with writing journal entries, magazine articles, short stories, and other things that could have been published? Absolutely. But, I didn't. Perhaps that's why when I struggle to write this memoir rather than feeling frustrated to the point of giving up, I feel a surge of energy and pride in knowing that I won't give up. I am finally living out my childhood dream. I will not stop until my books are on the very shelves of that library I called home. Writing a memoir is a practice in truth telling.
Currently, the words on my pages only get seen by a very small select few as I gently nudge the edges of what I know to be true for myself. And, that is key. It's my truth. It seems kind of absurd that telling my truth would have to be a practice, but habits and expectations have hidden the truth of who I am for so long that I had forgotten. To return to my truth is delicate; fragile, to quote Frida Kahlo, "not fragile like a flower, fragile like a bomb." I'm not sure where it will detonate. Who will it decimate in its path? Will I regret the irreparable damage it may cause? The surprising thing I have come to discover is what is leftover in the aftermath. It's like the bigger the explosion, the taller I stand amongst the rubble. Truth telling is a practice in owning exactly who I am. I am beginning to take these truths off the pages of my drafts and explore what it looks like, what it feels like in my day to day life. It hurts. But, my tears flow freely as I stand tall amongst that rubble. I'm the one with the long red hair and bangs to the left of the picture. That young girl was fearless. She knew who she was and lived in a way that reflected that knowing. I'm currently in the process of sharing her stories in the book.
Sometimes I feel like I never left that stage of my life. It was a time when all was still right with my world. My writing reflects that. Not in the way that the stories are about everything being right with the world but in the way that when I read back what I've written I'm fairly certain an 8 year old wrote it. It makes me feel frustrated, ashamed, and incapable. I know I can write this damn book, but I don't want to publish something at 46 that could have been written by an 8 year old. I want to scream, shout, punch something (like a child...). I want to be able to reach in to my brain and swirl it around so that I force my 46 year old self to show up at the keyboard instead of 8 year old me. These are the moments when I want to give up. I want to give in. "maybe I wasn't meant to write a book" "it's too hard" "I don't have the capability" "I'm not even interested in reading it, why would anyone else?" My book coach has said from the very beginning that every writer is completely transformed by their book no matter what the subject. I will continue to write as the 8 year old if need be until my 46 year old self shows up because I know she will. 8 year old me just has wants her time now and I will let her have it. I will guide her and mentor her until she is ready to let go of the reigns. Nothing will stop me from completing this book and showing that 8 year old self what magnificence we are capable of creating. She believed in me back then and I believe in her now. Writing is hard y'all. |
AuthorMelinda Lee is a mom of two adolescent boys, a devout student of all things spiritual, a recovering perfectionist, and immensely fascinated with achieving the unachievable. Currently writing a memoir about hugging strangers. Archives
February 2023
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